E Pluribus Unum
by Lithos Maitreya
Summary: War rages across the galaxy. The Sith Empire suddenly finds its aggressive rush into the galactic core cut off by unexpectedly powerful adversaries. Dark Councilors have been dying and are quickly replaced. Through this chaos, news reaches the ears of those who listen: The Emperor is dead. There is a revolution coming for the Sith, and the Emperor's Wrath is at the heart of it.
1. Chapter 1: The Sith Warrior

**A/N: Author's notes will not be much of a thing in this story. I'll put them up when necessary, but otherwise you'll have to ask any questions you have by PM or review and I'll respond when necessary.**

 **This story is… yeah, I think it's the most important thing I've ever written, at least to me. Not a romp like my usual stuff. This is going to get** _ **dark**_ **. Actually the very next chapter after this one is pretty dark. So's the one after that. This story is an experiment in thematic writing; in trying to make a point with fiction. Sorta like the stuff English teachers have their students read, or like some of the very best fanfics out there. (Most of the really good ones are about ponies, which is a damn shame, since ponies are not actually that conducive to making a lot of really important arguments.)**

 **I'm not sure whether I can do the topics I'm dealing with… but I'm damn well going to try.**

 **Yes, it's a SWTOR fic. No, it's not a damn stupid shipfic between uninteresting characters. The game isn't great. It's not too bad—BioWare is still BioWare, even if they're not releasing KotOR-tier stuff anymore—but it's far from their best work. It just happens to be set in my favorite period of the universe.**

 **I'll have one more note at the end of the chapter, and then I won't leave so many throughout the rest of the story. Enjoy.**

* * *

"I'm willing to concede Master Jinn's point that the Muuns have cornered the market on finance, if he is willing to concede that the Jedi have cornered the market on ethics."  
 _~Hego Damask, who was Darth Plagueis_

 **E Pluribus Unum**

Or,

 _The Line with Three Directions_

 _ **Book the Prelude: Origin**_

* * *

 _Peace is a lie; there is only Passion.  
Through Passion I gain Strength,  
Through Strength I gain Power,  
Through Power I gain Victory;  
Through Victory, my chains are broken.  
The Force shall free me._

 _The Force shall free me._

 **Chapter One**

The Sith Warrior

" _I haven't met a problem my lightsaber can't solve."_

* * *

Mysvaleer Meiron would be the first to admit that he was not a good man. His brother, Hethus—he was a good man. A good man did not fear adversity such as they had faced together, not when so much was at stake. A good man would stand strong and fast and defend what could not defend itself.

"Maybe you'd better start at the beginning," said Vette's voice, disturbing his vague nostalgia.

Mysvaleer (or, as he was now known, Darth Pyrus) opened his eyes and looked at his Twi'lek wife sheepishly. "My apologies," he said. "It's so easy to skip over the first ten years. I don't much like to remember them, honestly."

It was cool and moist in their shared quarters aboard the _Fire by Night_ , the Fury-class Sith Interceptor that had served them so well. It was dim, and outside the room the rest of the ship was dark save for the flickering illumination of the many digital and holographic displays that lined the tiny vessel's halls. The galaxy map in the cockpit lay dormant, along with most of the other non-emergency user interfaces. Outside, the stars flickered cold and aloof, uncaring of the affairs of those who lived under the billions of myriad suns.

Vette took him in her arms. One of her lekku was brushing his face as she said, "I know, but I told you my story. You owe me this. And it won't get any easier to keep it bottled up."

Mysvaleer shook his head. "It's not bottled up," he said quietly. "I've come to terms with it. You helped me do that, you know."

Vette blinked. "How?"

He smiled at her—the secret smile he never gave to anyone else which was their personal treasure. "By letting me love you," he said, smiling, "And reminding me what that meant." He sighed. "But you _are_ right. I owe you a debt I can never repay, but I might as well begin to try."

And so, taking a moment to collect his thoughts to the very beginning of it all, he remembered aloud.

* * *

Mysvaleer was eight when it began, and Hethus was seven. They lived together with their mother and father in the ancient compound of the Meiron, who were truly ancient among the Sith. Among the oldest of the purely human Sith clans, they were strong, prestigious, and renowned. They had no seat on the Dark Council, but no one cared about that—they were quite powerful enough.

No one, that is, except for the family patriarch.

Arteis Meiron, father to Mysvaleer and Hethus, was a fairly usual Sith Lord—that is, he was vicious, cunning, brutal, and ambitious. He and his wife had come together in one of the classic Sith arranged marriages, though which one or both sides would gain some prestige.

She was named Nellya Meiron—formerly Karrist—and she was Arteis' polar opposite. She was kind, civil, and loved her children—it was, her children later guessed, for these reasons that she was married to their beast of a father.

And this was all on their minds on the day when the end of childhood began, because—for the first time in seven years—Nellya was pregnant, and had been for a few months. It was to be a daughter.

Mysvaleer and Hethus, having heard the news, excused themselves as hastily as could be managed and left the stifling manor-house behind.

As they sat side-by-side under a twisted tree watching the Dromund Kaas sky drizzle perpetually they talked of this frightening development.

"This can't happen," said Hethus quietly. "We barely stayed sane for the first few years, and that was because we're boys. We'll grow into strong Sith—well, you will." Hethus had been tested long ago and found to have too few midi-chlorians in his bloodstream to be considered for entrance into the Sith Academy on Korriban. Their father had made his disappointment very clear. "And I had you, and my piloting." Hethus _did_ have power in the Force, but largely in a single field—skill in a starship.

"There are many very powerful Sith who are girls," said Mysvaleer quietly, though he knew perfectly well that wasn't the point.

Hethus told him as much. "Not in his opinion! You know how he is! 'There's a reason there are only two women on the Dark Council' and all that! She'll never stay human if she grows up like this—not even if she's got both of us and more strength in the Force than you!"

Mysvaleer slumped in defeat. "But what do we do?" he asked unhappily. "We'd never get away if we ran. He's a Dark Lord of the Sith! He can have all the power on Dromund Kaas after us in half an hour!"

Hethus looked down. "Not if we fly."

"Where would we go?" Mysvaleer asked.

Hethus didn't answer, not that his elder brother expected him to do so. They sat in miserable silence, looking up into the gray sky.

"I wonder what it'll be like on Korriban," said Hethus at length. "You'll have to tell me about it, when you go."

"I promise," said Mysvaleer, his voice soft.

"Imagine," whispered Hethus. "They say it's always sunny there—that Horuset burns the earth all day. It must be beautiful."

Mysvaleer looked at him. "The beauty in Korriban's sky is in its night," he said, "When the seven moons come up and down, one after another, each one just a little bit different and each one glowing. Horuset burns everything—the moonlight cools it back down."

They sat for a while longer, watching the gray rain. Thunder rolled in the distance, and a violet lance speared through the sky, miles away.

"You'll see it one day," promised Mysvaleer. "Korriban. Force, you'll see a thousand more planets than I will! You'll be a pilot!"

Hethus rolled his eyes. "Bet I never see outside of Vaiken Spacedock, knowing my luck," he grumbled. "Father would never let attention be drawn to the more shameful of his sons."

Mysvaleer said nothing, only reached out and put his right arm around his younger brother's shoulders.

* * *

It was six months later. Mysvaleer sat alone and nervous on his large bed, eyes shut. If his father walked in at that moment, he knew he would be beaten for what he was doing, but he needed it.

He was meditating, as the Jedi did.

It was not so much a guilty pleasure for him as it was a necessity. He knew with the cold certainty of terror that if he did not meditate, and fairly often, he would go mad and become just like his father.

The Dark Side was strong, and its power was his. But he would die before he allowed its madness to become his own. He knew his father had fallen past that final threshold long ago. That was the source of their family's misery now. He would not allow it to happen to him and his future family and friends.

And, Sith Lord or not, he _would_ have them.

But he was nervous, which was why he was meditating now. The source of his nerves also had his father furious and looking for someone to victimize—in such a mood, Mysvaleer would never normally consider taking such a risk.

But there was a reason. Nellya was in labor.

There was a knock on his door. Mysvaleer didn't even twitch as he said, "Come in, Hethus." Their father never knocked.

His younger brother stepped into the room. "She's been born," Hethus' voice was hoarse. He was not so controlled as Mysvaleer, and much more pessimistic about their father. He had been crying for the poor girl who was now their sister. "Mother named her Vanna."

Mysvaleer nodded, shielding himself from feeling. "It's a good name."

Hethus took a couple of deep breaths before replying, "Yes."

Mysvaleer sighed. Hethus hated it when he meditated in moments of strife. It detached him from Hethus' feelings and made it difficult to empathize.

There was silence for a time. "Do you think she'll be all right?" Hethus asked, quietly.

Mysvaleer didn't answer.

* * *

Mysvaleer leapt out of bed with a cry, gray eyes wild. It took him only a moment to identify the source of his sudden awakening.

The combined screams and yells of both of his parents and his one-year-old younger sister would wake the dead.

In a moment he was out of his room, the old-style Alderaanian-wood doors swinging out behind him. He rushed through the hall, stopping outside the one-year-old Vanna's bedroom. The doors were flung wide, and golden light poured out onto the dark floor.

Arteis Meiron sat in a plasteel chair—plasteel was commonly used in toddlers' and babies' rooms—with Vanna on his lap. His eyes were illuminated red with his Force-imbued rage. In the corner Nellya sat curled and bawling in a show of weakness no child should have to see from his mother (Mysvaleer had seen it many times).

Vanna screamed as Arteis struck her on the cheek—hard. Mysvaleer bit his tongue to keep himself silent.

 _Is this the Sith Order, fundamentally?_ he cried out internally in anguish. _Can we never do anything but cause pain? Why do we fight the Republic, if this is what we're fighting for?_

Then Hethus rammed into him from the side. Mysvaleer skidded a step, and even as he recovered, Hethus was already impulsively screaming "Vanna!" and rushing into the room, eyes glowing red like Arteis' in righteous fury.

Mysvaleer watched from outside the room.

Arteis stood up in rage, Vanna falling from her perch to the ground—she slowed as she fell, and Mysvaleer saw his mother's arm outstretched in the use of the Force—and stepped forward menacingly towards the younger of the two brothers. "You would defy me?" the Meiron family head growled, and his voice was deep and rich with immense power.

Hethus didn't even answer with words, so consumed was he by the wrath of the Dark Side. He merely reached out his hands and lightning spewed forth.

 _Force Lightning?_ Mysvaleer stared in incredulity at the bright rips in the air. _Hethus can't do anything_ like _that!_ This was the power of the Force, he realized. When it was needed—truly needed—it would rise to the occasion.

Arteis was no more expecting it than Mysvaleer, and it showed as he was too slow to defend himself. The electric current flowed into his body and he shuddered spasmodically in the throes of the attack.

It lasted for almost a full thirty seconds before Hethus fell to his knees, gasping for air. The red light left his eyes as they fluttered shut.

Arteis didn't move from his position—he had been forced to his hands and knees by the Force assault—for almost a full minute. Then he rose unsteadily to his feet, and the crimson glow seemed immeasurably greater now in his sockets than it had before.

He raised his right hand almost lazily, and Hethus floated slowly into the air. Mysvaleer's fists clenched, but still he did not react.

No, he would reflect later in life in his most miserable moments; he was too much of a coward to help.

Arteis' fist clenched, and Hethus stopped breathing—rather, he tried to breathe through a windpipe that was being crushed.

There was a moment of silence, puntuated only by Hethus' gasps for air, and then Nellya stood up. "S-stop it, my Lord," she whispered brokenly. Then with renewed strength as Arteis didn't react, "Stop it!"

Arteis' fist loosened, and Hethus gasped for breath. He turned slowly, threateningly, toward his wife. "What is it?"

"If you kill him," Nellya murmured, "I will make your life hell, Arteis. You know I can do it. I have power as your wife over all of your domains; power I have never had sufficient cause and courage to use. But you can't kill me—Lord Scourge would never allow it. And if you kill my son, so help you Force, you will answer to me."

"You threaten me?" Arteis whispered. In the turning of his attention, he dropped Hethus. Mysvaleer winced at the thud, but still he didn't move.

"Not a threat," Nellya said. "A promise."

There was silence and then Arteis swept out of the room, barely sparing Mysvaleer a glance as he left.

* * *

It was two years later. Vanna had not had a happy first thirty-six months. Mysvaleer felt for her from afar, but he could never interfere when his father forced neglect and pain on her.

No, he was too cowardly for that.

Mysvaleer and Hethus had grown apart. Hethus did not blame his brother for almost letting him die, but it did not change the fact that it had happened. And because of that, and because of Mysvaleer's cowardice and its contrast with Hethus' courage, a wall had built itself between them.

But they still loved one another dearly, even if they expressed it less often. In the face of their father's tyranny, they only had one another, Vanna (whose youth made her little comfort), and Nellya (who was often too busy dealing with Arteis and protecting them from afar to be much help).

That was why Mysvaleer knew something was wrong. Hethus suddenly stopped many of his usual habits. His spare time was spent either in his workshed outdoors or on excursions—meeting important people, he said.

Mysvaleer believed that. He was just worried about which people in particular. And it was because he was watching his brother that he noticed when he vanished. He did about it the first thing that came to mind—he went to his mother.

He tapped the buzzer on the wall—he had heard that once there was a custom of knocking on doors to signify a desire to enter, but one could not well knock on a metal door—and was met in a moment by Nellya's voice. "Come in," she called softly.

He entered. His mother looked absolutely spent. He frowned slightly—he might be used to it, but he still felt for her.

The woman was looking out the window at the drizzling of the light, eternal rain over the swampy grasses of the Imperial Capitol. The sky was gray overhead as always, but it looked somehow at once more mournful and more menacing than usual.

She smiled exhaustedly at him. "Mysvaleer," she murmured. "How are you, dear?"

He embraced her. "I'm well," he said. "Mother, Hethus is missing."

"Yes," she whispered, looking away from him. "So is Vanna."

Mysvaleer frowned, eyes widening. "What? Why? What has happened?"

She was silent for a moment, and then she turned to him. There were tears in her eyes.

"I had to do it," she whispered. "He wanted to protect her, and I… I couldn't stop him. Not from that."

"What has Hethus done, Mother?" Mysvaleer asked quietly, and with a growing certainty. He had heard his brother practicing at night, cultivating a Republic accent… contacting strange people…

She looked down, and two tears fell into her lap. "He's gone, Mysvaleer," she whispered. "He's taken Vanna to the Republic—to the Jedi."

Mysvaleer stepped back from her in horror. "The… the Jedi?" he croaked.

She nodded. "She'll be safer there than anywhere in the Empire," she said, and her weeping was now audible in her voice. "So will he—he plans to apply for emancipation as a Republic citizen."

Mysvaleer's fists clenched. He bore no illusions—the Republic was not really evil, and Hethus and Vanna would be safe there, but…

"This is our Empire," he whispered. "This is a betrayal of the Empire."

"I had to do it!" Nellya sobbed. "She would die if she stayed here!"

Mysvaleer didn't answer. He merely turned away and left the room. He knew now where Hethus was going—and he knew he could get there first.

In years to come, he would regret this harshness with all his heart, but he could never have known that his Father was just as hot on Hethus' trail as he was, or that he too would go to Nellya. He could never have guessed that he had just shared his last conversation with his mother.

He quickly returned to his room and extracted a waterproof robe. Then he jogged out of the manor.

The rain formed a thick drapery over the saturated landscape, drumming out a light rhythm on the metal of his speeder bike. He quickly leapt onto it where it was kept near the door and sped off, noticing the absence of Hethus' own bike.

Hethus would be headed to the hangar where the family's starfighter was kept. Mysvaleer would intercept him while he disabled the locks.

It took him five minutes on the relatively slow speeder to reach the hangar. It was out in the uninhabited wetlands, and not in the city, so Mysvaleer knew he and Hethus would not be disturbed. Arriving, he leapt of his speeder and slipped in quietly.

And there was Hethus, with Vanna on his shoulders, hunched over a console. The starfighter was still locked down—Mysvaleer could see it through the gate. But even as he watched for that brief moment, Hethus stood and a synthetic voice announced, "Locks disabled—nonessential personnel, please clear the launch area."

Vanna looked around in childish surprise at the voice and saw Mysvaleer at the doorway. "My'leer!" she gurgled happily.

Hethus whirled and froze.

Mysvaleer strode over to the gate which lay between the control room and the launch area and shut it. Turning to Hethus, he said, "I should have expected it, but I never did, Hethus. Betraying the Empire?"

Hethus glared at him. "What's to be loyal to, anyway?" he growled. "The Empire is broken—it doesn't work. It's ruled by an elite class whose only use for the rest is as toy soldiers. The Empire will never be worth fighting for while Father and his kind control it."

"Our kind," Mysvaleer corrected, looking at Vanna. "We are a Sith clan, Hethus."

"I will _never_ be a Sith Lord," Hethus said flatly. "Whether or not the Force grows stronger in me like it did that time two years ago. I'll kill myself first."

Mysvaleer watched him for a moment in silence. Then he spoke again. "I know," he murmured. "And I understand why you are doing this, but… to take Vanna to the Jedi, Hethus? They'll twist her—make her like them."

"And that's worse than being like Father?" Hethus asked caustically.

Mysvaleer shook his head. "No, but why not just take her out of the picture—set up a home somewhere in the Outer Rim, or find a better Sith caretaker for her?"

"There is no such thing as a good Sith," said Hethus flatly. "Haven't you figured that out yet? And she wouldn't be safe in the Outer Rim, or even in the deep Republic. Sith spies are everywhere. I can only guarantee her safety in the Jedi Order."

Mysvaleer's eyes narrowed. "They are a warrior's discipline, Hethus," he said coldly. "Safety is not exactly their aim."

"Better to die in battle then get dragged back here," Hethus growled furiously. "Now are you going to let me pass or not?"

Mysvaleer didn't move. "Why, Hethus?" he asked quietly. "Who are you doing this for?"

Hethus didn't hesitate. "For Vanna, of course."

There was a moment of stillness, and then Mysvaleer, silent, stood aside.

Hethus swept past him and towards the starfighter, not looking back.

"Hethus," Mysvaleer called after him, softly.

Hethus stopped; turned. His eyes were hard, but there were tears in them. "What?"

"I don't agree with you," said Mysvaleer, stepping through the gate and approaching his brother. "But I won't stop you. Please… can we part as friends?"

There was a frozen pause as the brothers stood facing one another, silent. Then Hethus reached out and embraced him. "I'm going to miss you, Mysvaleer," he whispered, and he was crying.

"And I you," said Mysvaleer, fighting back his own tears. He looked up at Vanna on his brother's shoulders, who was watching curiously. Her silence was a product of three years' training—Arteis did not approve of loud children.

"Become a strong Jedi," he told her forcefully, but with no rancor in his voice—only steel determination. "Become the strongest of all Jedi, and one day, we will meet across a battlefield, and I shall test your limits, and I expect to be beaten soundly, you understand?"

He looked down, and the tears fell. "I expect you to win."

"My'leer…" Vanna said unhappily, feeling his sorrow instinctively and reaching out to him.

He took her into his arms, Hethus allowing it. "I love you, Vanna," he murmured. "I am going to miss you…"

There was nothing more to say to her. With a kiss on her forehead, he handed her back to Hethus. "Goodbye, Hethus," he whispered.

Hethus grinned at him through his own tears. "See you around."

And, without another word, he was gone.

* * *

Mysvaleer returned to a silent house. It was nearing lunchtime, so this was odd—Nellya would normally be preparing the noon meal now. An irrational fear gripped him as he realized this, and he sped up as he made for her room.

Arteis was standing there, and Nellya was not—she lay on her side at his feet, eyes staring glassily under the bed. It took her son a few moments to notice the cauterized lightsaber wound through her chest.

His mother was dead.

Mysvaleer's face contorted into a mask of rage with agonizing slowness as the truth sank in. Arteis, feeling the ripple in the Dark Side, turned and saw him. "Where is Hethus?" he barked. "He has taken Vanna."

"He's long gone," Mysvaleer muttered, not even looking at his father—his eyes were glued to the hole in his mother's chest. "You killed Mother."

Arteis didn't even dignify that with a response. "You let him escape?" he screamed furiously. "You let him take my daughter to the Republic? To the _Jedi_?

Mysvaleer was silent for a moment and then his eyes met his father's and glowed with a blood-red light that made his father's, even in the midst of a Dark-Side-fueled rage, look like a dim, half-powered lamp compared to a supernova. "You killed my mother…" he whispered, his voice rasping with power. The Force condensed around him in a red mist, and electricity flickered around his clenched fists.

Arteis stepped back in surprise. Then his red eyes narrowed. "You think you can avenge her?" he asked coldly. "You're twenty years too young for that, boy."

Mysvaleer raised his hands out to his sides, and a wind whipped up about him like a cyclone. In his mind there was only red—the Dark Side had him completely enthralled now. "You killed my mother." Mysvaleer said, his voice magnified by the Force, and it seemed as though another voice spoke in unison with him—older, deeper, and crueler. "I will kill you."

Arteis drew his lightsaber with a _snap-hiss_. Mysvaleer's luminescent eyes didn't even blink as his hands reached out and the blade was pulled from the man's hand with a tug of the Force. It found its way into the boy's palm and he sank instinctually into a fighting stance for the aggressive Shien form (a form which he'd try to relearn for years after this Force-charged episode ended).

Arteis' eyes widened in terror, and it was with that expression that, in merely a moment and a single strike, his head was removed from his shoulders.

Mysvaleer stared at the falling body for a moment and then the lightsaber fell from numb fingers, deactivating on its way down. The Force left him and he sank to his knees, breathing heavily.

It was thus that he was found by Lord Scourge, the Emperor's Wrath, when he came to investigate the deaths he had felt in the Force.

* * *

"Oh, _Force..._ " Mysvaleer's reverie was cut short by his wife's whisper of horror. He met her gaze, and there were tears in her blue eyes.

He smiled ruefully at her. "I told you I've come to terms with it," he gently reminded her. "Besides, it's not as though you had it much better."

"Of course I did!" her exclamation was quiet but vehement. "My mother wasn't murdered by my own _father_! Force, Mysvaleer, I had no idea..."

He shook his head. "There is nothing worse than being a slave. It's behind us now, anyway. I just owe you the story."

She was silent for a moment, and then she leaned in and kissed him gently. He responded to the gentle pressure on his lips by twining his arms around her, bringing his right up to play with her lekku.

After a time, they separated. There was another comfortable silence, and then, smiling at his wife, Mysvaleer continued his story.

* * *

The acolyte was roused by the turbulence as the shuttle entered the planet's atmosphere. His eyes opened and immediately met those of the acolyte opposite him. The other young man immediately looked away nervously.

Mysvaleer studied him for a time, sizing him up. The man was slightly out-of-shape and looked rather nervous.

The man glanced back at him, and Mysvaleer met his gaze and held it. After a moment, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat again. He had seen what he needed and expected to.

The man was weak. He would not survive Korriban.

The shuttle landed. The straps on their seats unbuckled. Mysvaleer stood slowly and stretched while the other acolytes flowed out around him. One Sith Pureblood stopped at the door and waited for him. The human acolyte cocked his head at the man.

His eyes were red, and a golden ornament adorned the bridge of his nose. His red skin was marred with a scar which stretched across the skin surrounding his right eye. Mysvaleer met his eyes and came to a conclusion.

This one was strong. He would survive Korriban.

"Coming?" The man's low voice was silken and smooth, like the flat of a razor-thin vibroblade. There was a wary look on his face, but not the wariness of a weak creature surrounded by strength—rather the wariness of a master pazaak player who did not know yet how much of a bluff he could pull off.

Mysvaleer grinned at him as he strode in his direction. "Of course."

They left the shuttle together. There were two overseers there. One, with a mark of war paint or tattoo on his nose was talking to a group of acolytes. The other, with darker skin, Mysvaleer recognized as his contact: Overseer Tremel.

He nodded to his companion and they parted; Mysvaleer making for Tremel, who nodded at him as he approached, and the other making for the other Overseer.

Mysvaleer didn't know the Pureblood acolyte's name, but he knew with the certainty of the Force that it didn't matter: they would meet again.

* * *

They did; quite soon. As Mysvaleer delved into the tomb of Ajunta Pall, He encountered the other acolyte again.

Mysvaleer was in the middle of a k'lor'slug nest, whirling from one to the other and slashing through their vaguely amorphous bodies with his training blade. He spun to his left and slashed through the monstrous face of one of the beasts. Turning about he brought his saber up from below and disemboweled another.

He heard the spitting hiss from behind him and rotated, but was not prepared for the larger beast. It was not one of the minor drones of the colony: no, this was a soldier, red-skinned and vicious.

It struck him before he could parry and he was thrown back a few feet, landing facing the ceiling. The hiss approached rapidly as he rolled as quickly as possible. It was too fast, though, and he knew it. He would survive, but he would not escape unscathed.

Then the k'lor'slug's hiss was punctuated by a different sound, still sibilant but harsher and more constant. Mysvaleer knew that sound, and recognized, too, from his battle, the wail of a k'lor'slug in agony.

He got to his feet, and the beast lay dead at them; and there, about ten meters away, was the Pureblood acolyte, blade out and completely clean. He wasn't even winded. "All right there?" he said in that silken, deadly voice.

Mysvaleer studied him. "That would get you attacked by most Sith," he said grimly, referring to the other acolyte's caustic tone, and ignoring the Force Lightning he knew had been used.. "Not exactly the best start to any stay on Korriban."

The acolyte chuckled darkly. "Believe me, I know what Sith are like."

Mysvaleer studied him for a moment. "Do you indeed?" he asked quietly.

The other man laughed. "Comes with being a slave to one. What did they do to you?"

Mysvaleer was not too surprised at having been read. This Pureblood was a natural manipulator, and that necessitated observation. "Raised me," he said offhandedly. "Clothed me, housed me, fed me. Killed my mother and drove my brother and sister away."

"Nobility, then?" The man's voice was conversational, and there was not a drop of sympathy in his red eyes. "What family?"

"Meiron." Mysvaleer was slightly surprised at the hardness in his own voice. He knew he was angry at the Pureblood's callous disregard for his pain, but he was surprised at his own lack of self-containment. "Mysvaleer Meiron."

The Pureblood nodded. "Yskalan," he said, holding out his hand with a glint in his eyes. "Nice to meet you, _Earl_ Meiron."

Mysvaleer's eyes narrowed.

Yskalan smiled and his hand drew back. "Good to meet another acolyte with half a brain. I'll see you again, Mysvaleer." And then he was gone, deeper into the tomb.

* * *

"That was Yskalan?" Vette was astounded. "He was so... so..."

"So Sith?" Mysvaleer chuckled. "You haven't seen him on the council. Darth Imperius makes a very convincing paragon of darkness."

"So was that an act?" Vette asked him, bewildered.

"No," said Mysvaleer, shaking his head. "No, that was Yskalan as he was then. He and I were both... less than whole, when we came to Korriban. A lot has changed. He has Ashara now." The Wrath smiled at his wife. "And I have you."

"But how do I tie in?" Vette asked. "I remember you didn't like me or trust me at first, but you weren't... like that."

Mysvaleer smiled. "You misunderstood me, Vette."

* * *

Mysvaleer grumbled to himself as he walked the Academy's halls. His hardened boots tapped against the durasteel floor in a percussive rhythm. He had been ordered to judge prisoners and sentence them accordingly. Why? Tremel had no particularly good excuse, other than that it would show Darth Baras, who Tremel intended to make Mysvaleer's Master, who he was, and perhaps gain his favor.

Mysvaleer snorted derisively. If Baras couldn't already see exactly who he was and why he was worth training, then he wasn't worth contemplating as a teacher. Mysvaleer knew his name was not exactly unknown to the powerful Sith of the Order—the fiasco several years ago had drawn more than enough attention to him. The extinction or disappearance of all but the heir to an ancient and prestigious bloodline like the Meiron did not go unnoticed.

Still, such an exercise had benefits all its own, he had to admit. Decisions had power—decide to act on behalf of the Dark Side, and one gained a certain affinity with it. The same, he was sure, held true for the Light.

As he came to the entrance to the Prison, he heard a man speaking. "One more chirp from you, little bird, and you'll regret it."

Mysvaleer was about to step into the room when he froze. Another voice had replied, and that voice shocked him into stillness.

It was the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard.

All it said in its decidedly not Imperial accent, however, was, "Chirp, chirp, chirp!"

There was a momentary silence and then the faint hissing of an exposed electric current reached his ears, along with a faint, drawn-out groan by that beautiful voice—swallowed in the back of its owner's throat so that it was barely audible, but still present.

Mysvaleer's fist clenched and he now could barely keep himself still. _This is_ _ **not**_ _suitable,_ he thought. _What is this? My mind is my own domain, Force damn it!_

The sound stopped. "Ow! Jerk!" The voice said, sounding much less displeased than Mysvaleer would be if he had been electrocuted to that degree. "If you don't like that, just say so. I can do other animals too: Dire-cat, frog-dog, Kowakian Monkey Lizard, you name it."

As it spoke, Mysvaleer composed himself, and entered. And was startled by what he saw.

It was not that the woman was caged which surprised him, nor was it the rather harried look on the jailer's face. All of these things he had expected.

It wasn't even the fact that the woman was a Twi'lek, though that was unexpected.

It was that despite being as alien to him as almost any other species in the galaxy—Twi'lek were far from common on Dromund Kaas—she still managed to be the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on.

* * *

"Now you're just flattering me," said Vette, with laughter in her voice. "I remember that jailer. Knash, wasn't it?"

Mysvaleer chuckled. "Knash, yes. I doubt he ever got another prisoner as difficult as you. Though, to be fair, he did get something out of it."

Vette cocked her head. "What?"

Mysvaleer's grin morphed into something a little less loving and a little more passionate. "He had you in a cage, where he could observe you in any way he wished, without you being able to retaliate. I'd call that a bonus."

Vette hit him, but she was laughing. "You are a horrible person, you know that?"

"I _am_ Sith." With a deep breath, Mysvaleer continued.

* * *

The first prisoner he was to judge—not the Twi'lek, who was present for some other reason-was a bounty hunter who attempted to kill an Imperial agent in the Yavin sector. Mysvaleer considered the situation.

The woman was far from respectful, and her eyes burned with defiance. But Mysvaleer could see—and feel—the fear beneath that flame. The woman did not want to die but refused, point-blank, to beg.

The woman was guilty by her own admission, and could provide no information as to who hired her, so the Empire couldn't use that. On the other hand...

He nodded to himself, satisfied at his own conclusion. The Empire could not use her intel, but it could use her. "She is a potential resource," he told the jailer. "Send her to Imperial Intelligence."

The woman blinked, and relief clouded her vision momentarily, but then her eyes narrowed as she tried to salvage her pride. "I won't work for free," she called after the acolyte as he moved on.

Mysvaleer just shook his head and accepted her thanks in silence.

The next case was rather different. A former Sith Lord, the cyborg had failed an important mission and caused a thousand Imperial lives to end.

That was unforgivable, but Mysvaleer was here to judge, not to avenge.

"Please," the man begged him. "Let me die with a weapon in my hand. Give me trial by combat."

Mysvaleer looked into his eyes and reached out with the Force. He saw a lion in the man's soul, but a lion so beaten and battered as to be scarcely recognizable.

The lion would be a great asset to the Empire, if it were roused again. But one look at it and Mysvaleer knew that it was beyond too late for that.

Still, in memory of that war-beast that was now less than dead... "Give him a weapon," said the acolyte, not looking away from the man's—Devotek's—eyes. They widened.

"Thank y—" the man began to whisper, but Mysvaleer cut him off harshly.

"I'm not doing this for _you_ , he said forcefully. " _You_ are scum—beneath my notice, let alone my blade. I'm doing this in memory of a warrior who is already dead."

Devotek understood and was silent. A training saber was brought for him.

The battle was not even a challenge. Mysvaleer had expected as much. The lion was already as good as dead, worthy only of a sendoff.

The third prisoner was innocent. Mysvaleer knew letting him go would cause problems with Tremel, but the alien was innocent—Mysvaleer looked into his mind with the Force and checked—and the acolyte could not do anything else in good conscience.

And what was Tremel's opinion worth to him, anyway?

Mysvaleer shrugged. "Let him go."

* * *

"So that's why you did what you did."

Mysvaleer nodded and met his wife's eyes. "I've never really been certain about what I did with Devotek, but I can't see how anything else could have been better."

She shook her head. "It probably couldn't, although I wasn't happy about watching him die. Did you get yelled at, though?"

Mysvaleer snorted. "Tremel was a coward, then. He never did anything unless he can do it without any risk to himself. I had only a few years ago killed Arteis Meiron, and Tremel knew it. He reprimanded me, but he was never brave enough to raise his voice. He only changed during exile—enough that he came to support us in supplanting Baras."

"Was he afraid you'd snap?" Vette asked.

"He should have been, but no," Mysvaleer replied. "He was just afraid that I was Sith."

"What do you mean, he should have been?" Vette asked quickly.

Mysvaleer looked at her wryly. "I did say you saved me, or something like it, didn't I? That's what you saved me from."

There was silence.

Then: "I was there for the rest of it," Vette said. "And you were opening up fairly quickly, so I think I know the rest of the story."

"Up until now," Mysvaleer agreed, smiling and kissing his Twi'lek wife on the tip of her nose, eliciting a soft giggle. "When everything finished, for the moment. Baras is dead, I'm the Emperor's Wrath, and we just had a _fantastic_ , if delayed, honeymoon."

Vette grinned at him. "Are you sure that honeymoon part is over? I've still got that old shock collar."

Mysvaleer gave her a feral smirk, understanding her intention and not in the least resistant. "The rest of the crew is aboard now, so at least try to be quiet, all right?"

"No promises," hissed Vette as she pulled him down on to her.

* * *

 **A/N: And then they fucked. That's the implication, anyway.**

 **A note about updates: This story is damn hard to write. I'm currently working—very slowly—on the third chapter. As such, DON'T expect speed after about this week. I'll upload this, then the next chapter. The third I'll probably finish soon on the high of uploading this. After that? All bets are off.**

 **I wasn't even planning on posting this for a very long time. It just sorta happened. Don't expect anything quick. I'm telling you that up front, but I hope you'll give the story a chance anyway.**

 **If the above was interesting enough for you to want to read it anyway, though… thank you. The next chapter sets up some of the thematic context, which should be fun.**

 **Also, on reviews: leave them if you want. I'll read them, so if you want to say something, please say it. I like having conversations, and if this story can spur some then it's doing its job. But, with that said, I'm way past needing reviews to fuel my writing. I'm writing this for myself. So if you don't review, that's fine. Don't feel obligated to do so.**

 **That's about it. I won't talk so much next time. Or ever again, really. Thanks for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2: The Jedi Knight

_There is no Emotion, there is Peace.  
There is no Ignorance, there is Knowledge.  
There is no Passion, there is Serenity.  
There is no Death, only the Force._

 _There is no Death, only the Force._

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

The Jedi Knight

" _The Force is with me."_

* * *

With a cry, Amrell sat bolt upright. As the echoes of his voice faded in the cold, silent cabin, he strained his ears to hear something that would hint to something— _any_ thing—amiss.

The starship _Greenblade_ was, mercifully, still; Amrell's heart began to settle in his chest even as Kira began to stir beside him. "Amrell?" she murmured sleepily. "What's going on?"

Amrell sighed. "Nothing." He swung his legs over the side of the two-person bunk and stood. He stretched and looked over at the human woman—his _wife—_ sprawled among the covers, her nakedness hidden by the sheets. "Just a dream," he said, more to himself than to her.

She frowned, meeting his eyes. Whatever she saw there spurred her to sit up. The covers fell away from her torso, settling over her belly and lap. "Then come back to bed," she said cautiously, knowing his answer already and wanting a reason.

He shook his head, reaching for a robe to cover his own nudity. "I need to think," he told her. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of his—their—room. The dim light of the plasma power-lines through the ship lit his way to T7's workspace in the lower decks.

Amrell smiled as the ever-chipper astromech beeped cheerfully at his arrival. Of course T7 was still working; droids had no need for sleep. "Sorry to bother you, Teeseven," he said, gently rapping the droid's rotating headpiece in a show of affection. "I had a nightmare and needed to take a walk."

T7 chirped an affirmative. Amrell's nightly vigils were not common, but nor were they unheard of. T7 had been his host more than once.

Still, they hadn't occurred even once since the wedding. Amrell had thought Kira's soothing presence was keeping them at bay.

It seemed he had misjudged the tenacity of his curse.

Amrell realized then that Kira likely did not know about his occasional excursions. He'd never found her awake when the nightmares hit him before now.

This realization was accompanied by the sound of footsteps in the passage he'd just vacated. He turned.

Kira met his eyes. "Hey," she said. "What's up?"

She, too, had donned a simple robe—not the armored affair she wore on missions, but rather a much more simple affair fit for the interior of a peaceful starship and not much else.

He smiled at her. "Nothing, Kira. Just a bad dream. Go back to bed."

"I heard you scream," she told him flatly, making no motion to leave. "That sounded like a _really_ bad dream."

Amrell found himself looking away. "It was," he replied after a short pause.

"So tell me about it," she prompted, sitting down on a table.

T7 chirped reproachfully at her, and Amrell grinned at him. "Thanks for the defense, Teeseven, but it's all right." He looked back at his wife, met her deep blue eyes. "It's nothing new," he told her honestly. "I've had them on and off since I left Tython, all those months ago."

"I've never noticed them." Her voice was pointed, but double-edged: It reproached him for not sharing this with her, and herself for not seeing it.

He shrugged. "Sorry. They don't happen often, and it never seemed important."

"I've told you about everything from being a Child of the Emperor to that time I nursed a Tuk'ata cub with a broken leg back to health," she told him, smiling sardonically. "Trust me, Amrell." She stood and stepped closer to him, and her hands reached up to his face. "If it's enough to keep you up at night, it's important."

Amrell looked down, his brown eyes meeting her glimmering blue ones. He sighed and bent his neck down, bringing their lips together gently. "Thank you," he murmured as they broke apart. "That means a lot."

"So talk," she said, stepping away and sitting back down. "What did you dream about? Was it the Force—a vision?"

He sat down beside her. "I hope not," he said quietly. "They're never quite the same, and none of them have come true, but they're always bad."

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and spoke.

* * *

Amrell was kneeling on the dark floor, his eyes downcast. The Presence stood over him, studying him as a scientist studies an interesting specimen undergoing vivisection.

"Look at me, Acolyte."

The words of the Presence—his _Master—_ brought Amrell to heel and forced his obedience. His eyes looked up and met the blood-red orbs in the aged, shrunken face that had haunted his dreams for so long.

The Emperor held his gaze, and the searching look was like a lance into Amrell's soul. "Recite your code," he commanded.

Amrell's tongue and lips moved without his mind's intervention, not that his mind would have done anything else. "Peace is a lie," he croaked, and his voice was raspy and broken from disuse. "There is only passion."

"Through passion I gain strength," he continued. As he spoke, he heard a strange struggling sound over to his right and behind him. Some tiny compartment of his mind—age-old instinct, perhaps—wanted to turn and look, but his consciousness repelled the notion. His Master had not given him permission to look away.

"Through strength I gain power." The struggle became louder in his ears. Someone was being dragged across the floor, kicking and flailing about; they were gagged, he knew,because only small noises escaped their throat, but from their pitch and timbre he knew the captive was a woman.

"Through power I gain victory." The struggle continued, but its approach ceased; whoever was dragging the gagged woman and come to a standstill beside him, just out of the range of his vision. The Emperor gave no sign that he had noticed; he merely held Amrell's gaze as steadily as ever.

"Through victory my chains are broken." Amrell finished.

"Good," the Emperor nodded. "Rise, my acolyte."

Amrell did, and suddenly he was aware of his garb. He was clad in black and red robes; hooded and armored, with sharp angles. It was the armor of a Sith Lord.

 _Fitting,_ said a voice—his voice—and he realized with some tiny portion of his mind that it was not some foreign mind but rather his own thought.

"This Sith has brought a prisoner," said the Emperor. "Look."

Amrell turned and did, and his eyes met Kira's. Her hands were cuffed, and she was kneeling on the floor. She met his gaze, and her eyes were full of tears. She tried to speak, but the gag kept her silent.

"And she is not alone," the Emperor said, and his voice seemed to flow into Amrell's heart and mind like honey.

At once, the door into the hall opened. Amrell had not been ordered to look away from Kira, so he did not, but out of the corner of his eye he saw faceless men in masks and black armor dragging others—familiar faces. There was Lord Scourge, bound into immobility, carried by three Imperials; there was Sergeant Rusk, walking beside his captors with a slave collar around his neck; there was Doc, his hands and feet tied, being dragged like a sack; and in the rear was T7, an ugly, black restraining bolt effectively neutering his capabilities as he was carried in a soldier's arms.

And there were others, too. Master Vanna, of the Jedi Council, was being dragged alongside Doc, and Hethus, Amrell's smuggler friend, was walking alongside Rusk, likewise collared. Shepard, the indomitable trooper who had worked with them on so many missions, was there too; she had been tied, armor and all, into a kneeling position and was being carried as Scourge was.

The lot of them were deposited before Amrell and his Master and the soldiers who had brought them were forgotten.

"Look, Acolyte, at the gifts I have been brought," the Emperor's voice was silky.

Amrell did as he was commanded, meeting the eyes of each of his former comrades in turn. Each one met his gaze with the same betrayed, defeated gaze.

"Do you know how they came to be captured, Acolyte?"

Amrell shook his head mutely.

"Turn to face me and reply with words, Acolyte." The Emperor's voice had become stern now.

Amrell turned. "No, Master," he said, and his voice was still hoarse.

"You brought them to me, Acolyte," the Emperor told him with a smile that engendered a strange duality in Amrell—one part of him thought it was a sick, horrible grimace of a smile, but a larger part felt elated at having received the gesture of approval.

"I brought them to you, Master," Amrell agreed dutifully.

"I have decided now what must be done with them," the Emperor told him.

Amrell waited in silence for his Master to elaborate.

"They will die," said the Emperor, and his voice was quiet. "As befits all enemies of my seat."

"Yes, Master," Amrell agreed. It was only fitting, after all.

"The difficulty comes in choosing their executioner," said the Emperor. "It must be done with a lightsaber, of course, but there are so many eager Sith to choose from."

Amrell was silent.

"The honor must be given to someone whose loyalty to me is unflinching," the Emperor continued, studying him, "someone who wishes only to please me. Only a Sith who truly loves his Emperor should be allowed the honor of destroying such heinous enemies as these."

"Master," Amrell said as the Emperor paused. "Let me be the executioner."

"You?" the ancient Sith's eyes gleamed as he laughed. "You? A former Jedi? You claim to be as loyal to me as my Hand? As my Wrath?"

"Your Wrath is a traitor, Master," Amrell pointed out, "And there can be no Sith who loves you as I do."

"You are a former Jedi, Acolyte," said the Emperor dismissively. "Their Code has poisoned you."

"My mind is clear of the Jedi," Amrell argued. "Even before I came to you, I violated their Code. I allowed emotion to color my actions, in violation of their Code. I behaved in ignorance, in violation of their Code. I was passionate, in violation of their Code. I dealt death, in violation of their Code."

He blinked, and when his eyes opened, the world was subtly different, as if a weight had left his shoulders. He felt powerful. "I am yours, Master."

The Emperor smiled at him again, and this time there was no disgust. "So be it, then; you may proceed with the execution."

Amrell turned and proceeded to do so.

Lord Scourge, as a direct traitor to the Emperor, came first—his head was, without ceremony, removed from his shoulders.

Next was Shepard, the soldier of the Republic. Again, there was no lengthy torment—Amrell just sent his red blade through her skull.

After that, he dispatched Vanna with a bit more flair. His lightsaber swept in a uppercut, neatly bisecting her in a line connecting her groin to the tip of her skull.

After that, he came to Hethus. A single spearing jab into the heart ended him.

Doc followed, his head shorn in two along a diagonal so that his mouth remained on his neck but both eyes and brain were dropped.

Sergeant Rusk was next, and he was slashed apart in a line from his left shoulder to his right hip.

Then it was T7's turn, and here Amrell got creative. He brought his lightsaber to bear directly about the center of the astromech's cylindrical body and stabbed down.

Then he turned, at last, to Kira. The tears were flowing freely now, and her blue eyes were pleading, begging him. _Stop this, Amrell!_ they seemed to cry. _Come back to me!_

So he did, lightsaber-first. The woman's eyes were making him feel things that made him uncomfortable, so he went for them first; the very tip of his red blade entered her sockets and incinerated the orbs.

As he attacked the left eye—the first, Kira bit her gag and squeezed the other shut. As he struck at the right, she began to scream. The cries were nonverbal—the gag saw to that—but that made their nature all the clearer. They were the bestial cries of a sentient being tormented past the limits of reason.

They were beautiful.

Amrell came closer. Gently, he brought his lightsaber to her left arm. Slowly, glacially, he began to sink the weapon into her shoulder

The process seemed to take days, and all the while Kira's screams grew louder. At long last the arm finally gave up the fight and fell from the cauterized stump.

The same treatment was then delivered to Kira's other arm.

Then Amrell stepped back for a moment, to allow Kira's scream's to die down—not completely, but at least to decrease in volume. Then he struck at her legs.

He cut at them in the same slow way, starting from between them this time in a macabre parody of sex. Her screams redoubled with each instant, and there were many.

In the end, the woman lay before him, utterly broken, surrounded by her own limbs. She should have been unconscious by then, but was somehow still aware, and the scorched holes in her face where her eyes had been almost seemed to be looking at him, and their gaze was horrible.

In the face of that gaze, the two parts of himself united—one in fear and one in pity—and the brutalized head was removed.

And in that moment, Amrell awoke.

* * *

Amrell opened his eyes as he finished and found that Kira had wrapped her arms around him and that T7 was standing sentinel at his legs, pressed gently—comfortingly—against him.

Then he realized that he was shaking, and that his eyes and cheeks were wet.

Kira was crying too, he saw. For a moment he entertained a thought that she might be horrified at him for what he had dreamed, but the notion was rejected.

 _We broke the Code for each other,_ he reminded himself. _I love her, and she me._

He wrapped his arms around her and put his horned Zabrak head into her pale shoulder.

T7 chirped softly, soothingly.

They stayed there like that for what felt like an age before the tears stopped flowing. Then, even after that, none of the three moved for a while longer.

Then, finally, Kira spoke. "And you dream like that regularly?"

Amrell nodded into her. "Not often, but inevitably."

T7 beeped—a question.

"That was about usual," Amrell answered him. "I've had worse."

"What _is_ it, though?" Kira muttered. "What the _kriff_ gets off doing that to you?"

Amrell chuckled weakly. "The Force, maybe," he said quietly. "Or my own head. Maybe whatever's left of the Emperor, haunting me."

"That last one's nathak shit, and you know it," Kira told him flatly. "You said you'd been having them since Tython. I guess they didn't have the Emperor then?"

"No," Amrell agreed. "Back then they mostly featured Masters Orgus and Satele, and the Dark Jedi I fought on Tython. Vanna was there then, too."

"You met her on your first Tython tour?"

Amrell nodded. "We worked together on a few jobs."

There was silence. "I don't think it's the Force," said Kira eventually. "I think they're real dreams, but I've got no idea why you'd dream something like that."

Amrell shook his head mutely. The tears were starting to come again.

* * *

"You didn't sleep well last night, Jedi," Scourge informed Amrell flatly the next day at breakfast.

"If that's true, I think I'd be able to figure that out for myself, Scourge," the Zabrak Jedi told his Sith friend.

"There, you see?" Scourge cocked his head slightly. "That cynical tone. It's not usual with you, Jedi. Did you suffer a vision?"

 _Suffer._ The word echoed in Amrell's head. When speaking of Force-induced visions, two words were generally used: _receive_ and _suffer_.

That fact said something, he just didn't know what.

"Maybe," he replied to the former Emperor's Wrath. "Or a nightmare."

"You should determine which," Scourge chided him. "If a vision, then it's important that we act on it."

Amrell stilled. After a moment he looked over to the Sith. "Fine," he said. "I'll act. I need you to make me a promise."

Scourge frowned. "Why? Was I featured in your vision?"

"Yes." _Just not in the way you're thinking._

"If I betray you, Amrell," Scourge told him, leaning forward across the table, "I will have a _very_ good reason, and for more than either Empire or Republic."

"I never said you betrayed me."

Scourge's frown deepened, and he sat back. "Speak, then."

Amrell cocked his head, his eyes meeting his ally's. "If I show a sign of turning to the Dark Side—the _Emperor's_ Dark Side—throw me out the airlock," he instructed flatly.

There was silence.

"I was featured," Scourge said slowly. "How?"

"You were alive at the beginning, and dead at the end," said Amrell, standing up. "And you weren't the only one."

With that, he strode away. Scourge was not a man to speak with when emotionally unstable. Amrell needed to meditate.

* * *

When Amrell finally found a quiet corner of the ship to meditate, his thoughts drifted into memory.

The young Zabrak was a child of the Order; that is, he had been brought into the Jedi Order at an age so young that he remembered nothing else. In recent years, especially following the Sacking of Coruscant and the catastrophe that had been the Great Galactic War, the Jedi had begun recruiting ever more apprentices and Padawans even as late as very early adulthood. Amrell was not such a recruit, however.

Amrell remained an apprentice and Padawan for many years and saw many planets as he learned. Even so, there was little to remember of those years, and less to tell. He had known some happiness, perhaps, but more than that it had been idyllic, untouched by pain. Without that pain, how was he to appreciate the joy?

From his early training, it had been apparent to all his instructors that here was a Jedi who was made for the lightsaber. As such, they pushed him to learn the arts of swordplay early.

He had rapidly achieved proficiency in the Shii-Cho kata, and had eventually even reached something akin to mastery.

It had been to test his skill in the final, great examination of knighthood that he had gone to Tython. Then the Flesh Raiders struck, and such things were forgotten.

He had been raised to use his sword, and so he did, but he had not been raised to make other sentient beings bleed and die, and he found that on Tython he did that too. It was an uncomfortable experience.

He might have had much more difficulty adapting, had he not had help.

* * *

Amrell tensed as his training saber clashed against the Flesh Raider's vibroblade, bracing himself against the impact. He spun away rapidly, deflecting a blaster bolt another had sent his way right back at the sender.

It tried to dodge, but its own rotund bulk prevented an effective withdrawal. It gave an animal wail as the blubbery flesh of its side was cooked by the superheated plasma. The sound made Amrell grimace.

He continues his spin and brought his blade about in a low sweep, sinking it, sizzling, in the body of another assailant, which screeched and fell.

The sword, however, did not cut through cleanly, and was stuck in the body for a moment. _Force-damned training saber!_ Amrell thought, fear spiking in him.

He subdued the unwanted emotion and, even as he tugged on the blade, turned to the first, vibroblade-wielding Raider, which was already charging him.

 _I'm not going to make it in time._

The realization hit him like a Coruscanti bus. He clamped down on his fear, though, and called on the Force—not for power, but as a cloak. It _might_ shield him enough to survive the blow, though the vibroblade was moving quickly.

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, a boulder flew into the beasts head. Its skull caved into the blunt trauma and it fell to its side.

Amrell's sword came free and he turned to face his savior.

He blinked. The thrower of the massive boulder was a small human girl; she couldn't be any older than seventeen. He brunette hair hung about her shoulders, and her green eyes pierced his own.

Those eyes alone, even without the display she had given, would have told him that she was powerful.

"Hey, you all right?" The question was spoken in a smooth, cool voice, with the slightest Imperial undertone—decidedly a Republic accent, but a border one, he decided.

"Yes, thanks to you," he responded gratefully. She had likely just saved his life. "I can't do much without my saber."

"What a coincidence," she chuckled ruefully, drawing hers and twirling it idly, watching as the yellow glow streaked through the air. "I can't do much _with_ it." She approached until she was within comfortable speaking distance and held out a hand. "The name's Vanna," she introduced. "Padawan of Tython."

He took her hand and shook it. "Amrell," he replied. "Likewise. A pleasure."

 _Only a Padawan?_ he wondered in astonishment. _She's at least twice as strong as I am in the Force!_

"What're you up to on this fine invasion?" she asked, drawing her hand back. "Just building up a kill count?"

Amrell barely refrained from wrinkling his nose at the distasteful thought. "No," he told her, and explained his current self-assigned mission. "The Flesh Raiders have been caging up Padawans, alive. I've been trying to free them."

"That's probably worth doing," Vanna decided, "and it puts my mission in a bit of perspective—there's a group of Padawans who got trapped up in the hills in the invasion, and I'm to locate them for rescue. I'd rather not find them caged."

Amrell nodded. "So would I," he said. "Would you like to work together? We can get those Padawans out first and then rescue the ones that have already been caught."

She grinned up at him. "Sure. Together we'll go through the Raiders like a lightsaber through nexu butter."

Amrell didn't respond to that, but the sentiment worried him.

* * *

It was only shortly thereafter that the 'squad,' as Shepard had dubbed it, organized for the first time. Whether it was Force or fate, Amrell didn't know, but he doubted it had been an accident that the four of them, along with their companions, had all been on the _RSV Esseles_ together.

When Amrell first walked into the lounge, T7 at his heels, he had first been assaulted by the crowding. It was not that there were such a large number of people—the Fleet had been worse—but rather that they were all interacting, and not doing it well. Their personalities scraped against each other with the passive animosity of people who don't really like each other, and like each other even less because they have nothing better to do than socialize, and will continue to have nothing else to do for quite some time.

Still, some individuals stood out. Vanna was there, for one, talking with a Twi'lek woman as her Trandoshan companion, Qyzen Fess, stood over her like a bodyguard. She waved at him when she saw him. He smiled back, but did not approach quite yet, continuing instead to scan the room's occupants.

There was a blond man, probably about his age, with gray eyes that seemed to crackle with a good-humored fire as he and a younger, dark man with a rifle played sabacc with a few of the other passengers. The blond man intrigued Amrell. He was clearly winning—winning big—and yet he seemed to be the only man in the room that _no one_ disliked. It was rather disconcerting.

His eyes moved on. In the corner, isolated from the rest, he saw two others whose presence surprised him. There were Republic soldiers on this ship, yes, but he had not expected to see a pair of commandos. One was a woman, Mirialan by species, and perhaps a few years older than he was. Her hair was red and hung to her shoulders, a curtain around her face. The other was a Cathar man, his hair cropped until his scalp was covered in no more than the same thick-but-short orange fur as adorned the rest of his body. He seemed the elder and the more experienced, yet even at a cursory look, Amrell could see that the woman held authority. There was an intriguing air of command about her.

Amrell made his way over towards Vanna, but even as he heard the tail-end of her conversation—the Twi'lek was saying something about Imperials—there was an alarm and a voice blaring over the intercom.

" _Warning...!_ "

Amrell didn't bother to listen to the rest. He caught hold of the nearest solid object and gripped it tightly, and not a moment too soon. The explosion and rumbling that followed knocked nearly all of the passengers to their feet, but he kept himself upright.

"Well, looks like you were right," Vanna said loudly to the Twi'lek once the shaking subsided. She, along with many other passengers, had fallen over. Vanna helped her up.

"Are you all right?" Amrell asked her as he bent to assist another fallen passenger.

"I'm fine-" the woman began.

"Bridge." The voice was sharp and clipped.

Amrell turned. It was the Mirialan trooper, and she was looking at him, her assault cannon in her hand.

"Come on, Jedi," she said shortly. "We don't have all day. We need to get to the bridge."

"On it, soldier," said the blond man with a chuckle. "Don't get your panties in a twist."

The commando glared over at him, and Amrell followed her gaze. The man was now wielding two pistols which had been concealed.

"Can it, 'slinger," the soldier said shortly. "If you're in, you're in. We need to move."

"Right," said Vanna, joining them. "We'll talk while we move. I'll take point."

"You sure, miss?" the gunslinger's rifle-wielding companion asked her worriedly. "I wouldn't mind."

Vanna grinned wolfishly and activated her new green saberstaff. "Can you deflect blaster fire?" she asked him with a wink. "Didn't think so."

The young man blushed. "Sorry, miss."

"The walking paragon of chivalry here is Corso Riggs," said the gunslinger, stepping forward and studying Vanna with an odd look in his eye. "I'm Hethus, Captain—eh, _former_ captain—of the _Kestrel_."

"There'll be time for introduction's while we move," the Mirialan trooper instructed pointedly. " _Walk_."

So they did; Amrell quickly activated his lightsabers, including the new offhand one he'd gotten on the fleet, and they lit the floor up with a blue glow.

"I'm Vanna," Amrell's sister-in-arms replied to the blond man as they jogged along the passages. "Jedi Padawan. This," she gestured to the Trandoshan, who nodded without really looking at the man, "is Qyzen Fess, a... friend of mine. Nice to meet you, Hethus."

"Same," said Hethus, and there was an odd note to his voice.

Then droids attacked. They were put down.

"I'm Amrell," said the Zabrak into the sudden silence. "This is Teeseven."

"Lieutenant Shepard, Havoc Squad," the Mirialan commando replied. "This is Sergeant Aric Jorgan. _Now_ can we move?"

Amrell nodded and followed Vanna, who was already moving.

* * *

Amrell opened his eyes and smiled. _Shepard, Hethus, Vanna..._

The 'squad,' Shepard called them. Not Havoc Squad—her own force. Just the squad. The _Esseles_ was the beginning. Since then, they'd gone on every mission imaginable, from capturing starships to full-scale invasions; they'd even rescued Darth Revan himself from the Emperor.

More importantly, there was not a single moment Amrell had spent with the squad that he looked back on with anything but fondness.

He stood, and on impulse left the quiet room and made for the ship's holocommunicator.

Kira, who was leaning against the console while cleaning her lightsaber hilt, saw hip approaching and smiled. "Feeling better, Amrell?" she asked.

Ha grinned at her. "Much. I'm going to call Shepard—see if she's got anything for us to do."

Kira's smile widened. "Oh, good!" she said, pushing off the console. "I was getting bored with all these regular jobs."

Amrell smirked. He punched Shepard's holo signature into the console and stepped away from the projector, waiting.

The call connected, but it was Jorgan, and not Shepard, who picked up. "Master Amrell," he said cordially in his rough voice. "What do you need?"

"Jorgan," Amrell gave the man a familiar nod. "I was wondering if Shepard had a mission for us."

"See," said Kira, entering the projected area, "we're in the unfortunate position of having _free time_ , and Amrell was hoping the Major could help us out."

Jorgan chuckled. "I understand, Jedi, but I don't think we can help you. We're currently on free time, too..."

"...And we're enjoying it very much, thank you," said Shepard in her striking voice, striding into the projected area from behind Jorgan. "Sorry, Amrell; you want to get the squad on a mission, it's your problem. I'll join in if it's a big one, but I'm not putting in the work. Not now."

Amrell raised a brow. "Busy?"

Shepard winked at him and gave Jorgan a quick peck on the cheek. "A bit."

Amrell laughed slightly at Jorgan's surprised and slightly awkward expression. "Understood, Major. I'll try to be patient."

"Thank you," said Shepard, and cut off the call.

Amrell stood for a moment, thinking. Then, just as he was about to turn away and go find something else to do, he felt Kira's arms snake around his shoulders from behind. "You know," she said quietly, "I think Shepard and Jorgan might have the right idea. I'm _certain_ I can keep you entertained until the Council decides on a job for us to do."

Amrell smiled and breathed in deeply, inhaling his wife's intoxicating scent. "I imagine you can," he said softly; lowly. "Do you aim to try?"

"I don't try," she said, swinging around him and bringing his lips down to hers.


	3. Chapter 3: The Imperial Agent

**Chapter Three**

The Imperial Agent

" _There's no mission like a suicide mission."_

* * *

Sirenya was aware that Vector was displeased with her insomnia, but it was largely out of her control. She was, after all, a legal fugitive to both the Empire and the Republic, so she could hardly seek out a decent therapist anywhere in the Galaxy. Besides, committing Cipher Nine to therapy would rank alongside the Castellan programming of an agent about to go into deep cover in terms of wisdom.

That hadn't stopped them, though, had it?

The Chiss shook off the unwanted thoughts as she scanned the bright tapestry of stars before her. The cockpit of the _ISV Spectral Huntress_ was dark in the inactivity of the night; even the holographic galaxy map was inactive. All light came from beyond the compressed window, filtered in from the uncountable diamonds in the sky.

Sirenya sank into the pilot's seat and put her head in her hands. It was always so _hard_ , in these dark hours of the night, to drive away the nightly horrors and memories.

The former Cipher bore no illusions: she was, by any real standard, a psychologically damaged individual. Perhaps she would be healthier to expend her hatred outward and rage at the men who had used her and left her broken by the wayside, but health was not her goal.

 _No,_ she thought. _I'm part of Fury Team._ Ardun Kothe was, in the end, a good man, which meant that Pyrus might one day be able to use him. And the Dark Council...

She snorted. _Going against them would be going against Imperius, by now._ _Half of them are in his pocket without even knowing it._

 _And yet..._

And yet she still couldn't go home. Still couldn't return either to her birthplace on Csilla or to Nar Shaddaa where she'd been trained. She clenched her eyes shut against the tears that always threatened to flow in solitude. She _would not weep_. Fury Team needed her, and she was glad to do her duty.

But it was so _hard_...

Unbidden, the face of Ardun Kothe swam in her mind. _It's not as if you can be trusted to help them,_ it reminded her.

Her fists clenched, but the rest of her body went limp.

Damaged? Even now, she was lying to herself. She was _broken_.

"Agent?" Vector's precise tones made her look up, thankful once again for Chiss red eyes which made it difficult to tell when she'd been holding back tears.

She arranged her face into a smile which, she knew from years of work, looked absolutely natural, and could fool anyone but Hyllus himself. "Vector," she said. "You should be in bed."

"So should you," he chastised. "But the ship's holocommunicator is receiving a call from an unknown source. Given that we are supposed to be invisible to any but our contacts, we thought you should know."

She stood with a nod. "Yes, thank you, Vector," she said quietly. "I have a feeling I know who it is." She hesitated, and then, in a moment of weakness, asked softly, "Stay with me?"

"Of course," agreed Vector, neither his face nor his voice betraying the worry she knew she was putting him through. Not many people could pull off impassive better than an Imperial Cipher, but Vector Hyllus was one of them.

She smiled at him again and made her way to the central holocomm terminal. With a tap to the terminal, she accepted the call.

There was Ardun Kothe, right on schedule.

"Legate," he said, a sort of resigned sorrow on his face, despite the obvious triumph of having found one of the most well-hidden fugitives in the galaxy. "I knew I'd find you."

"So did I," said Cipher Nine calmly, her face totally blank. "It's good to see you, Ardun." _A lie, but easier to tell even than usual because it_ should _be true._

It did make him look a little less sad, too, which she supposed was a good thing. "We need to talk. The Empire's started using the intel you gave them, and they're doing... strange things with it."

She nodded. "Using the intelligence to slip relief drops into refugee and disenfranchised encampments all over the Republic's outskirts," she elaborated for him. "You think I wouldn't know what _my_ intel is being used for, Kothe?"

He stared at her. "Why?" he asked at length. "No, not why; _how_?"

She smiled slightly. "One day, Ardun, you'll meet Darth Pyrus," she told him. "You'll probably die, but if you're lucky, you'll _understand_ first. In any case, you didn't call to tell me what my Empire is doing. What is it?"

"No, I came to ask _why_ and _how_ , but you won't answer, will you?"

"You know why," she told him flatly, the political smile dropping from her face. "As to how? They're Sith, not demons or Rakata." She laughed humorlessly. "Not that there's a difference to you, _Jedi_."

He frowned at her. "This is a new one. Cut the riddles, Legate, please—what do you mean?"

"It's right in front of you," she said dismissively. "You just don't want to see it, and I'm not here to correct your preconceptions. If there's nothing else, then I'll see you next time you decide to call."

"Wait," he said quickly. "There is something else. You mentioned Darth Pyrus. He..." the man hesitated.

Sirenya studied him, swallowing her revulsion in favor of trying to read him. It was difficult—he was both a trained SIS agent _and_ a Jedi, both of which were very stoic occupations—but not impossible. Buried beneath the stony expression she could detect undertones of confusion, some worry, and... dislike, but not for her. _How odd._

"Who is he?" Kothe asked finally, frankly. "I've got some of my superiors—including some so high up the chaim of command that they're not even _in_ it—" _Ah,_ the Cipher thought, _someone's interfering in SIS business like Jadus did with us, and he's not happy about it,_ "-are knocking down my door demanding I find the identity of the Emperor's Wrath," he finished. "Master Am—" he swallowed the name she already knew. "An important Jedi wants to know more about him."

She cocked her head. "What is Master Amrell's interest in Lord Pyrus, beyond the obvious?"

Kothe growled slightly. "I assume it has something to do with something he did a couple of months ago, but I don't know."

Sirenya rolled her eyes. "The dodge won't work here, Ardun," she said. "The Emperor is dead. I certainly haven't lost sleep over it. You know something about why the Jedi is curious about Pyrus, and if you want anything out of me, you'll have to tell me that." She smiled at him, her poise unruffled. "You're the one with Jedi and Senators breathing down your neck, after all."

He cursed. "Dammit, Legate, you know how to drive a hard bargain," he said darkly. "Fine. Do you swear to tell me who Pyrus is if I tell you this?"

"No," she laughed, the simple expression hiding the whirring of her mind as a plan began to form. "Of course not. But I _will_ give you the means to find out. And don't worry," she chucked again as he tensed and glared, "you'll be able to leave and report back afterward. I'll explain: I'll give you the coordinates and time for a meeting with Pyrus, with his word not to harm you. I'm sure the Republic is aware of his... unusually honorable reputation?"

"We are," said Kothe cautiously.

"Good," she said. The plan was taking shape. "You'll take one Interceptor-class ship—or something of similar armament—and so will he. You'll meet, talk, and part ways. There will be no harm done, and you'll both likely walk away with more information than you entered with."

"I'm not sure I want to give the Emperor's Wrath information," said Kothe flatly.

Cipher Nine rolled her red eyes. "Do you not trust your ability to win a game of questions, Ardun?"

Ardun stared at her dully. "Against you, _force_ no. But maybe against a Sith Juggernaut."

 _Good,_ she thought, _the fool is already underestimating Mysvaleer. They always do._

"So I'll tell you why Master Amrell's so curious," Kothe summarized, "and you'll give me those coordinates for a meeting?"

"Precisely. So?"

Kothe sighed. "Amrell's been working with Lord Scourge," he divulged.

Cipher Nine raised an eyebrow. "The AWOL former Empereor's Wrath?"

Kothe nodded. "Not so much AWOL as actively treasonous, but the old Sith is curious about his successor. There's more to it that I genuinely don't know. Something about a disappearing Earl on Dromund Kaas."

 _It's as I thought,_ Sirenya said to herself. _They're on the trail Mysvaleer left after whatever happened that night his family was destroyed. He always said they might follow it. Force knows why._

"I see," she said impassively. "You don't know any more." It wasn't a question; rather it was a misdirection, intended to leave doubt in his mind as to how much she'd gained from the exchange. "Very well. I'll communicate with Lord Pyrus and send you the coordinates as soon as possible. Expect them within the next few hours—it's the middle of the Kaas night-cycle, so Lord Pyrus may be sleeping."

"Of course," said Kothe, then frowned. "So why are you still awake?"

A lesser woman would have tensed at the unintentional hypocrisy, but not for nothing was Sirenya the Galaxy's greatest spy. Her face didn't even twitch as she simultaneously said "I had work to do—dossiers to sort through, you understand," and thought, _Because I've had insomnia, depression, and worse Bantha fodder giving me hell ever since you did what you did to me, you half-Dug bastard._

"Of course," said the former Jedi, grinning tiredly at her. "No rest for the wicked, eh?"

She smiled back, internalizing the roiling of her innards. "Indeed. I'll be in touch soon. I have your comm frequency."

"You do?" He looked surprised for a moment, then laughed. "Of course you do. Why wouldn't you? It's only one of the best encryption keys in the Galaxy."

She chuckled lightly alongside him. "But it's not _the_ best, you see," she told him. She swallowed her feelings one last time and gave him a friendly smile. "May the Force be with you, Ardun."

He gave her a wry grin. "And you, Legate."

She cut the comm. The smile slid from her face as she allowed emotion to flow back into her body. She had no idea what her face looked like, or what her body was telegraphing—she'd stopped paying attention. Whatever it was, though, it concerned Vector.

"Are you all right, Agent?" he asked her quietly.

"Sirenya," she whispered, looking up into his dark eyes beseechingly. "Please, Vector. Not a title; not now."

He blinked, and then the Killik darkness left his eyes and he nodded. "Very well," said Vector, and Vector alone. "Sirenya. What is wrong?"

She looked away and put a hand over her eyes to hide the tears that, despite her best efforts, had formed tiny droplets on her lashes. "I never explained to you what happened on that deep-cover mission several months ago, did I?" she asked. It was a struggle. Telling anyone about this—especially Vector—was something she'd avoided doing for quite a while, though she suspected Imperius and Pyrus both knew, by virtue of their access to the Dark Council's intelligence and the data from the Star Cabal's archive.

Still, it was Vector. At some point she had to talk to him.

"You did not," Vector replied after a moment. "You said you needed time. I did not want to force you. I still don't."

"You aren't." Sirenya swiped her hand from her eyes, cleaning the wetness that had escaped away. She had it under control now. "I need to tell you. I _want_ to tell you." She couldn't shake the feeling that she was trying to convince herself.

Vector nodded and said, "Then we—I—will listen to whatever you wish to tell me, as far as you wish to."

"Thank you, Vector," she said, and launched into the whole sordid story; from Kothe's conquest of her mind to the hallucinations of Watcher X and finally the reprogramming which had left her with a massively higher threshold for physical endurance at the cost of any possible second wind.

Vector listened intently to the whole tale. He was not an expressive man, but where another might give a cry in rage he frowned in consternation and where another might offer sympathies he looked into her eyes and did it wordlessly. In short, he reacted perfectly in all the right places, and she could feel his cathartic presence calming her down as he did so.

At length she finished, more poised even than she had started. Vector studied her evenly, but with a sort of sorrow in his eyes that was more empathy than sympathy. "This Ardun Kothe did all this to you?" he asked.

She shrugged. "In the end, he was forced into it almost as much as I was. He had the information and couldn't not use it. The only ones to blame are Hunter and the Dark Council."

"And yet you still excuse him and are willing to work with him," said Vector. An odd look adorned his face as he watched her. "Sometimes," he said, "That part of me which is Killik occasionally questions the human part's love for you," he told her, in a way that was more information than confession. "You never fail to explain."

She frowned at him. "Whatever do you mean, Vector?" she asked, confused.

"Sacrifice is central to the Killik, as it is with all collectives," Vector said quietly. "But individuals without a hive are almost invariably selfish. You? Sirenya, you are more selfless than any Killik I have seen."

She smiled slightly and embraced him. After a moment, however, she sighed and pulled away. "I need to call Mysvaleer," she said. "Leave a message, at least, if he's asleep."

Vector nodded, but said, "Surely it can wait until morning? You should sleep."

She kissed him lightly. "I won't be long," she told him. "You go to bed. This won't be as painful as talking to Kothe."

Vector looked at her for a moment, his black eyes digging into hers, before he acquiesced. "Very well. Good night, Agent."

"Good night, Vector." She watched him leave the room and then leaned over the console, punching in a series of codes she knew like her own Imperial ID number.

The hologram rang for a moment before it was answered by a small human woman in a hooded robe. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Cipher Nine," said Jaesa Willsaam cautiously. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Sirenya smiled thinly. "'We' as in Pyrus' team?" she asked caustically. "It certainly can't mean you, specifically."

Jaesa and Sirenya did not get along, for perfectly good reasons. Jaesa had a healthy habit of not trusting spies, and Sirenya had an equally healthy one of not trusting Jedi.

Well, equally healthy for an Imperial spy, anyway.

Jaesa's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, which was a sign that her Jedi self-control was particularly weak at the moment. Sirenya wondered why. "I think I'll refrain from answering that," the Padawan said flatly. "Master Pyrus is planetside right—" She stopped and turned away, looking at something Sirenya couldn't see, thought the Cipher could hear the sound of an electronic hatch opening.

"Pyrus? Are you there?" She asked the hologram on a hunch.

"I am," the familiar voice replied, and Darth Pyrus stepped into her view to join his Padawan. "Hello, Agent. Just got aboard."

She bowed low to one of the only Sith she'd ever really respect. "Lord Pyrus," she said, straightening with a smile. "It's good to see you well. I'd ask where you are, but..."

Mysvaleer chuckled. "I'll actually be able to tell you this time," he said. "I'm on Nar Shaddaa. There's a Hutt sitting on a nest egg the size of Coruscant's treasury, and the Empire wants some. Simple job, really."

Her brows rose. "There's not much in the galaxy more difficult than parting a Hutt from his credits," she said.

He laughed. "Not if you give them a good enough offer. But enough of that. What has you calling in the middle of the night—Kaas' night, anyway."

She nodded and her smile faded. "I've set up a meeting for you, but you have to specify the time and place."

Jaesa frowned slightly but said nothing, which was fortunate for all concerned.

Mysvaleer, raised an eyebrow. "What are the stipulations and with whom is the meeting?

"Ardun Kothe," Sirenya explained, all business now. "SIS, former Jedi, involved in the Star Cabal crisis."

"Ah," said Mysvaleer, face darkening. " _That_ one."

Mysvaleer knew the whole story. She'd had to tell him, as Fury Team's leader, that she was unfit for duty. He'd proceeded to disabuse her of the notion as well as he could.

"Stipulations," the Cipher continued, carefully ignoring Willsaam's curious look at her Master, "Are that you swear not to harm him and to allow him to leave, that you send coordinates to him—I'll give you his communicator information—and that you and he both arrive in Interceptor-class ships or analogs."

"No stipulations as to number of representatives, I notice," Mysvaleer said quietly.

"I knew you'd think of that," she said with a bitter grin, "just as I knew he _wouldn't_. I said he'd be free to leave, so you can't have someone else kill him. Anyone he brings with him is fair game, as far as I've gone, as is anything on his ship not related to 'leaving' and 'alive.' I think I need to preserve him as a contact, though, so be gentle if you can."

Mysvaleer grunted. "I'll try, but I don't intend to play too nicely. He's already turned our relationship to Huttball."

She nodded. "Understood. We have a few hours before he'll expect an answer, so if you want to call me back with place and time in the morning..."

"Six days from now in a cave on Quesh, local time 18:00," Mysvaleer said promptly, his eyes dark. "Inside the cave. You know the place."

 _Quesh_. The symbolism did not escape Sirenya, and nor did the gesture. As Quesh was a site of triumph for her, just so was it a site of defeat for Pyrus. The cave itself was the site of Pyrus' near death.

She gave him a genuine smile and nodded. "Quesh it is. I'll send the message to him."

"Send it in the morning," Mysvaleer told her, a small smile cracking through the grim expression on his features. "You've dealt with Kothe enough for one day. Get some sleep."

She bowed gratefully. "Yes, my Lord. Thank you."

He laughed lightly. "Don't mention it. Expect a note from Karrys soon, though. Yskalan may have an operation for us."

Sirenya nodded, her smile widening. "What will it be this time? Eons-old force-sensitives again?"

"It has gotten a bit dull, hasn't it?" snorted Mysvaleer. "Maybe we'll actually fight the Republic this time, like we're supposed to be doing, or some Sith, like we want to be."

"I'm not betting on it," she snorted. "I'm going to bed. Good night, Mysvaleer."

"'Night, Sirenya," he said as he cut the connection.

Sirenya was insomniac, but not all her dreams were bad ones, and a conversation with Mysvaleer before had a way of blocking the worst visions. It was just one of the many qualities he possessed that inspired her loyalty.

* * *

Sirenya's eyes snapped open at the chiming of the ship's holocommunicator. Vector had woken too, and was shifting beside her. She laid a hand on his arm and swung her legs over the side of their bed, sitting up. "It's all right, Vector," she told him. "I'll get it." She stood, stretched, strode over to the dresser, and quickly threw on her uniform.

"Are you sure?" Vector asked her, his robes half on. "You need your rest."

She laughed. "I'm not getting back to sleep for a few hours anyway. Might as well make a day's work out of it. What time is it?"

"About 7:00, Kaas time," said Vector.

"Then I got sleep enough for one night," Sirenya said, and left the room. It was a lie, but at least it was an old and easy one.

She traversed the ship and came to rest before the holocomm terminal. A quick patch and a familiar face appeared.

"Karrys," Sirenya greeted with a smile—one only slightly marred with insincerity. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Yskalan's got some intel, and he needs you acting on it." said Karrys shortly. The formidable Mandalorian was like that—Sirenya thought Karrys liked her, in her way, but she certainly never expressed it. The agent had never met anyone so stoic.

It made her glad they were on the same side. It was hard to find someone's weak spots—where they'd feel a strike—if they seemed to feel nothing.

"And what might this intelligence be?" Sirenya asked blandly, unconsciously clasping her hands behind her and taking a military stance.

"Forwarding the locations to you now," said Karrys, nodding at someone Sirenya couldn't see. "Yskalan thinks he's found someone with connections to Mysvaleer in the Republic."

Sirenya frowned. "He wants an assassination? That won't sit well with Lord Pyrus."

"No," said Karrys flatly. "Just reconnaissance, and you're the best for the job we've got."

"The Republic's top agents are aware of the existence of Cipher Nine, and know her appearance," Sirenya retorted evenly, without rancor. "I don't see how I could be our best spy if they're important enough for Yskalan's network to have picked them up before one of ours."

All four members of Fury Team had networks of informants throughout both Republic and Empire. It had served each of them well, but their workings were distinct. Sirenya specialized in the underworld—any rumor among pirates and black-market pushers soon found its war back to her. Pyrus' network was concentrated among the common people of the populous planets of both sides of the war. Karrys had Mandalorian and mercenary contacts, as well as ties to several organized gangs and cartels which operated above Sirenya's level.

Yskalan's network was the smallest and yielded the least intelligence, but with its composition of Senators, nobles, and other high-level officials on both sides, any information Yskalan gleaned was likely to be extremely useful.

Karrys shrugged unsympathetically. "I'm too far out of position, and this one needs to be kept contained," she said flatly. "Besides, the target is only peripherally connected to Republic intelligence."

Sirenya blinked once in a show of surprise. "If not SIS, then who on Kaas is following Pyrus' trail?"

"Didn't say they were following the trail, Sirenya," said Karrys, eyes narrowing. "I said they had a connection. Your target is one Captain Hethus."

The name meant nothing to Sirenya, though she felt she'd heard it before. "Never heard of him. Republic Space Navy?"

Karrys laughed. "Underworld king, more like," she snorted. "Used to be a small-time smuggler who was good with his ship. Now he's ruler of Dubrillion and the closest thing to a Cartel boss among all non-Hutts."

Sirenya blinked. _Now_ she remembered the name. A lot of potential agents had been previously claimed by the fold of one Hethus. This must be the same man. "Human, is he?"

Karrys was silent for a moment. Then, "Can you keep something from Pyrus?" she asked frankly.

Sirenya blinked again. This was unexpected. Her eyes narrowed. "Yskalan wants to keep information from Pyrus? This is not how things work, Karrys."

It was true. Information had always been shared among Fury Team, ever since the fiasco on Tatooine had broken the barriers between them.

Karrys grimaced. "Fine. I'll tell you, then you can tell me if Yskalan's reasons are good. If you decide to go to Pyrus, I won't stop you. Sound better?"

Sirenya nodded briskly. "Speak."

Karrys rolled her eyes. "This Hethus is Mysvaleer's brother."

Sirenya's mouth might have actually dropped open. Karrys certainly grinned enough.

"It gets better," Karrys said, amused at the Cipher's reaction. "His wife—Risha Drayen, heir to an underworld dynasty—is an old partner of Vette's."

Sirenya stared at Karrys, then sighed. "This is related to that schism among the Meirons we don't know the details of?"

Karrys nodded. "For whatever reason, Hethus works for the Republic," she explained. "We know Pyrus would never condone working against him directly—in any way—without evidence that he's a threat. So we need to get that evidence _before_ we talk to him. That's what Yskalan figures, anyway."

"Darth Imperius shouldn't get into the habit of working behind Pyrus' back," Sirenya grumbled, her professional posture well and truly destroyed by the revelations she'd been hit with. "It can only mean trouble."

"In the long run, yeah," agreed Karrys. "But the long run won't matter if something this Hethus did kills us all within a few months."

Sirenya was silent for a moment. "I need to send a message for Pyrus," she told the Mandalorian. "And I should check in with him afterward. But I think I can take the job. How does Yskalan want it handled?"

Karrys shrugged, grinning at her, clearly pleased with her acceptance. "Deploy to Dubrillion undercover," she said. "You figure out the rest. You're the Cipher."

"I am," agreed Sirenya quietly. "It will be done."

She shut off the holocommunicator and stood for a moment, still as a statue. "I am the Cipher," she murmured. "The Cipher without Watcher or Keeper."

She closed her eyes and let herself rest for a moment. The _Huntress_ was silent; Vector had likely gone back to sleep, and no one else was awake.

"Does someone need to die?" SCORPIO, of course, was always silent.

Sirenya opened her eyes. The murderous droid was directly across the holocomm from her, its—her—luminous optics studying the Agent's every move. "You seem displeased with our current course," SCORPIO said blandly. "Given past events, this suggests that some organics are going to die. This is a good thing."

Sirenya snorted. "For you, maybe," she said without heat. She and SCORPIO disagreed often, but there was an understanding and camaraderie there. SCORPIO was someone Sirenya could trust to do what was necessary, even when Sirenya couldn't make herself act directly. More than once, SCORPIO had done so without even having to be ordered, which Sirenya, despite the apparent insubordination, was grateful for. SCORPIO had never overstepped a certain line: she expedited their objectives without ever causing more harm than good, even when the deeds involved were unspeakable to the point that Sirenya couldn't order her people to do them.

Certainly, some of them would willingly obey if she did. It wasn't for their sake that she refrained, but for her own.

"No, SCORPIO," Sirenya continued, "Our next mission is reconnaissance, not assassination or sabotage."

SCORPIO hummed her displeasure. "Not even a little sabotage?"

Sirenya smiled slightly. "We will be in the Republic underworld. I'm sure no one will miss some explosives, and it shouldn't be too hard to find people who would serve better dead than alive."

SCORPIO seemed almost to smile. "Good. That will be... satisfactory."

"Fun, SCORPIO," Sirenya corrected with a chuckle. "The word you're looking for is fun. But I need to send a message on to Lord Pyrus first."

SCORPIO nodded in a graceful gesture which would look odd on any other driod—on her sleek frame it seemed only natural. "Advise us when you are ready to depart and where the target is." She turned to depart.

"Wait," Sirenya called after her. SCORPIO paused. "Target location is Dubrillion. Can you start working on a trajectory that'll get us to a nearby starport without Republican connections? We'll need to swap ships—the _Spectral Huntress_ is a bit..."

"Recognizable?" SCORPIO said archly. "I understand. I will begin analyzing the Dubrillion-local cluster at once."

"Thank you, SCORPIO," smiled Sirenya as the droid left. With that dealt with, the Cipher turned to the holocomm. She took a moment to breathe deeply and compose herself, and then punched in Ardun Kothe's comm code.

The man responded promptly. "Agent," he said with a slight smile. "Good to hear from you. Did you hear back from the Sith?"

Sirenya mirrored his slight smile and nodded. "I was able to get in touch with him this morning," she lied smoothly. "I am sorry you had to wait."

Kothe shrugged, but her trained eyes could see that he was pleased by her affected concern. "I took the chance to get some sleep," he told her. "It's quite all right. What did he say?"

"He has agreed to your meeting as stipulated," Sirenya said, her perfectly faked smile widening. "The time and location are 18:00 local time on Quesh in five days. There is a cave in the no-man's-land: I'll send you the coordinates."

Kothe started slightly. "Quesh?" It was the location of Sirenya's victory over him; the place where they had parted ways. His eyes seemed to darken at the name of the planet, and Sirenya's heart leapt guiltily at his pain.

Her face, on the other hand, she composed into a sympathetic frown. "I understand," she said, and that was true. "The location has some significance to Lord Pyrus, I believe." That was true too, but the caveat was unnecessary and helpful as a misdirection. "I can ask him to change it if you like...?" She was fairly certain Kothe wouldn't ask for it. If he did, she would wait fifteen minutes and then call him back, telling that Mysvaleer was unwilling to change. Ardun would certainly agree then.

"No, it's all right," Kothe said, chuckling sadly. "Thank you, but I'll be happy for any opportunity to meet with him. Thank you for your help."

Sirenya gave him her best smile. "It was my pleasure, Ardun. I hope the meeting is fruitful."

He grinned at her. "I'm sure it will be." And then he was gone.

Sirenya's smile fell off her face. She turned and sat on the raised communicator platform, cradling her head in her hands. It was always hard, talking to Kothe—especially in the morning, when she had to work through the whole rest of the day.

It was still better than having his voice be the last she heard at night, though, as it would have been if Mysvaleer had not ordered her to sleep.

She shook herself. She needed to talk to Mysvaleer, and then there was work to do. The day would not wait for her.

She stood, turned to the communicator, and called Lord Pyrus.


	4. Chapter 4: The Smuggler

**A/N: This story _is_ still alive. It's just damn hard to write, and _RWBY_ 's been taking up a lot of my time. But I have returned, for the, what, three of you reading this?**

 **Those three or four people who care, welcome back. Please, enjoy.**

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

 _The Smuggler_

" _As it happens, smuggling's my specialty."_

* * *

"Right," Hethus said as he ducked behind cover. He gave the armored trooper to his right a sidelong glance. "This is dumb."

"It's always the same with you, isn't it?" grumbled Risha from his left. "'It'll just be an easy drop,' you say. 'I know they guy, we can trust him,' you say."

 _Hethus doesn't make a habit of learning from his mistakes,_ Bowdaar barked in agreement, Hethus' translator implant converting the sound of Wookiee into the meaning of Basic words.

"Hey!" Hethus complained. "I do so learn from my mistakes! Remember when I got stabbed in the back by a senator I thought liked me, and almost turned Akaavi against the ship, all because I was a bit irresistible?"

"That's code for 'sleeping around,' right?" Risha drawled.

"Aw, you know I'd never do that to you, darling," Hetus cooed over the sounnd of blaster fire.

"Right," Risha said, "because you'd literally lose a damn kingdom if you did."

 _Can we shoot the Imperials now,_ Bowdaar suggested, _and argue the Captain's loyalty later?_

"I'm a very loyal person," Hethus began.

"Can it," Risha advised. "Start shooting."

Hethus leaned out of cover, guns first, and took two potshots at two particularly light-armored Imperials. They both went down, helmets twisted and molten where the bolts had struck. He was just aiming to fire a burst at a more heavily-armored lieutenant when the man was bisected by Bowdaar.

"Hey!" Hethus exclaimed. "That one counts as mine!"

 _What are you, a Trandoshan?_ growled Bowdaar good-naturedly as he blocked an Imperial vibroblade. _We don't keep score here, Qyzen._

"Feh," grumbled Hethus, firing several shots into the chest of another soldier. "I'd be winning if we were."

"Only because you go groundside for _every mission_." Risha glared at him from behind the crate she was using for cover. "I tell you to stay safe, you take it as an invitation to get shot at even more."

He grinned over at her. "Hey, it's nice to know you care."

"Probably wouldn't have..." Risha was interrupted by ducking a shot. Hethus paid the imperial hotshot back with a dozen of his own. "...Married you if I didn't" she finished as though the pause hadn't happened, already firing at another trooper.

"Yeah, fair enough," Hethus conceded. "Anyway..." he stood and took out the last trooper. "...Let's get moving," he said. "We've got a two-timing son of a Hutt to get our intel from, and a station to blow up."

 _Can we get off it first this time?_ Bowdaar asked plaintively. _I didn't enjoy having to find an escape pod in under a minute last time._

"Wasn't exactly my idea of a good time either, buddy," Hethus agreed, patting the Wookiee on the arm as he passed him. "'Least we're not dead."

"Yet," Risha grumbled. "I swear, _careful_ 's not even in your vocabulary."

He grinned back at her. "I built a criminal empire from the ground up and married a pirate queen, sweetheart," he said with a chuckle. "Exactly which part of that screams 'careful' to you? Or, y'know, anything besides _dashingly impulsive_?"

"I prefer psychotic," Risha said drolly.

Hethus shrugged as he began slicinng into an important-looking door's electronic lock. "Girls like a bad boy."

"We _do_ tend to prefer them to stay outside of insane asylums, though," Risha advised. "Just a tip."

He snorted. "I'm a married man, Risha," he said dryly. "I don't do tips."

"I'm sure the whole senator thing had nothing to do with your sudden shift into monoamory," Risha grunted.

 _He did say he learned his lesson,_ Bowdaar barked.

Hethus rolled his eyes. "So maybe a swift kick in the pants helped me sort things out a bit," he conceded. "I mean, all's fair in love and war, right? And it _was_ a war zone on Corellia." He stepped back. "Also, door's open."

Bowdaar kicked the metal. It slid away to reveal a large room full of cargo. _No,_ Bowdaar corrected. _Now it's open._

Hethus frowned at him. "All right, you lead the way, wiseass."

Bowdaar laughed as he led the way into the hold of the freighter.

* * *

A few hours later, they were filing back onto the _Kestrel_. Hethus' contact, a weaselly little Nautolan named Algon, had been reminded of why it was a bad idea to call Imperials to a drop for the Voidhound. He was now waiting, bound, for Republic forces to come and pick him up for a lovely stay in a cell.

Hethus smiled as he entered the ship. "I'm back!" he sang. "Did you all miss me too much?"

"Not really, captain," Corso said casually, looking over from where he was cleaning one of his many blasters. "Where we headed next?"

Hethus shrugged. "Don't really have anything lined up," he said. "Why don't we call Shepard and see if she's got something?"

"Apparently, she's on vacation," grunted Akaavi disgustedly, coming out of a corridor. "She and the Cathar, Jorgan."

Hethus nodded understandingly. "Right, honeymoon," he said. "I see. Well..." he shrugged. "Maybe Amrell has something? Man never takes breaks."

Corso shrugged. "Call him," he suggested.

Hethus did.

"Captain," the Zabrak Jedi Master said with a smile as he picked up. "It's good to see you. How have you been?"

Hethus shrugged. "Another contact just tried to turn me in to the Empire," he said. "Nothing new. How about you?"

The Jedi held out his arms in a gesture of ambivalence. "Much the same," he confessed. "The same things as always going wrong and right, as they do."

"Hey, Hethus!" Kira Carsen crossed into the hologram, grinning.

Hethus smirked. "Hey, sweetheart," he greeted smoothly. Risha punched him before he could continue.

"Forgive him," she said, joining him on holo. "Training him is ongoing."

Amrell laughed lightly. "Of course. Kira, did you want something?"

"I had an idea," she said quickly. "Am— Master, that job we've got the SIS agent, Kothe on... Do you think Port Nowhere would be a good place?"

Amrell frowned at her. "For the meeting?" he asked. "I thought the Sith set the meeting at Quesh?"

Kira rolled her eyes. "For what comes _after_ the meeting, silly."

Amrell's eyes widened. "Ah," he said. "Yes. Hethus, I have a favor to ask."

Hethus cocked an eyebrow. "Fire away."

"In a few days, an SIS agent working for me is going to go to a meeting with the Sith Lord Darth Pyrus," Amrell began, his voice serious. "Have you heard of him?"

Hethus frowned. "I don't make a habit of keeping up on Imperial affairs..." he began.

"Yes," Akaavi said from behind him. He turned to look at her. She was slightly stiff and looked wary. "He's the one they call the 'Emperor's Wrath; replaced your Lord Scourge, correct?"

Amrell nodded. "That's the one," he said. "Apparently, he's also leader of the elite squadron 'Fury Team.' They're sort of the Imperial response to the Coruscant Aegis."

"Huh," Hethus said appraisingly. "They got anyone as charming as me?"

Amrell rolled his eyes. "We know as little about the members of that team as we hope they know about us," he said. "We know there are four members. Two are Sith. We think another is a Mandalorian. The fourth... we have no idea."

"And that's one thing you want to find out from this Darth Pyrus, right?" Risha guessed.

Amrell nodded. "Among other things," he said. "Taking the Wrath out of play will be a serious blow to the Empire in any case. They say he's as powerful as any member of the Dark Council."

Hethus frowned. "Does this 'they' have any idea how powerful that means?"

Amrell shrugged. "I'm going to be there in person," he said. "It'll be dangerous of course, but he can't really be any worse than the Emperor, can he?"

"And Ardun Kothe—that's the SIS agent—has Jedi training," Kira added. "And I'll be there too. This Sith won't stand a chance."

Hethus shrugged. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said. "Just be careful."

"I will," Hethus promised. "But I can't exactly keep the man aboard the _Greenblade_ , and I can't take him either to Tython or Coruscant."

"So you want to use Port Nowhere," Hethus finished. "Fine, makes sense. On one condition: I want to be on the station while all this is happening."

Amrell nodded. "Of course; it's your station."

"Exactly," Hethus agreed. "Can't have you people blowing it up while I'm away."

* * *

Hethus Meiron was not a good man. Others might disagree. They were probably wrong.

Good men didn't lie to their wives and friends. Good men didn't kidnap their kid sister. Good men didn't pretend not to know their siblings.

God men didn't betray their government and family.

Hethus sighed and got out of bed. Risha didn't wake.

He quietly crept out into the hold and surveyed the cargo. There were a few crates of armor in one corner, for a drop they were going to make in a few days on Ord Mantell, resupplying the troopers there. There was a shipment of focus crystals headed for Corellia for the weapons factories that were finally starting to function again, now that the planet had been retaken from the Empire.

And tucked away in a small lockbox, hidden in plain sight, were two artifacts Hethus was carrying only for himself.

He crossed the room, knelt by the box, and punched the code into the digital lock. The box clicked, and he removed the lid.

Before him were two identical lightsabers. They were simple things, cobbled together patchwork from whatever parts he'd been able to scrounge together over his time, but they functioned.

Unbidden, his right hand reached down and grasped one. Then he stopped.

His teeth clenched.

With a visible effort he unclasped his fingers and pulled them away from the hilt. He closed the box and locked it again.

He sat back with a heavy sigh.

 _If I took that thing out now, I just know Corso would walk in two seconds later,_ he thought ruefully. _Explaining to the kid why I have a pair of red 'sabers would not be a fun conversation._

Hethus Meiron was not a Sith Lord or a Jedi. He wasn't even much more Force-Sensitive than most. But he knew his way around a lightsaber, and sometimes, when no one was aboard the ship with him, or he was groundside on his own, he would reach out and touch the Force, just to remind himself that it was there.

He brought a hand to his face and rubbed his tired eyes.

 _Something's happening._

He knew it. He could feel it, if only slightly, through his atrophied connection to the Force. That worried him more than just knowing that the Force was sending out warnings; if _he_ was feeling it, then the Force must be practically screaming… or it must be calling to him in particular.

He didn't know which was more unsettling.

Sometimes he wished he could come clean with someone; Amrell, maybe. The Zabrak Master would be good to talk to about this. He'd be able to confirm or deny what Hethus was feeling, and help him figure out what was going on.

But if there was one flaw to Amrell's character, it was his tendency to categorize people, and Sith were a very strong and clear category. Hethus didn't want to be tarred with that brush…

…And more importantly, he couldn't let it get near Vanna.

Sometimes he felt more like a spy than a smuggler. At least smugglers could come clean with their closest allies.

A smuggler always had people watching his back. No one was ever close enough to a spy to watch theirs.

He stood in an impulsive, sudden motion and left the hold. He walked down the corridor until he reached an escape pod, turned on his heel, and started back. He wasn't going anywhere, but sitting still made him paranoid.

 _Why sit still,_ he thought wryly, _when I could keep running away?_

He'd thought a few times about going back to Dromund Kaas. Not to apply for citizenship or rejoin the Empire, of course, but just to try and find out what had happened, in the end. His disappearance would not have gone unnoticed by his father, and while Arteis might not miss the weaker of his sons, he would certainly miss the powerful daughter he had only just started to mold.

Had he blamed Nellya? Had the family been split by his flight? Had Hethus' mother even _survived_?

And where was Mysvaleer now? Training under a Darth, no doubt; he had likely been named a Lord already. He would be about twenty-six now, and would likely be named a Darth within a few years, if he was as powerful as Hethus remembered.

The pilot shuddered slightly, rubbing his arms to ward off a sudden chill. An image swam in his mind, half-formed, of an eleven-year-old boy he barely remembered, dirty-blond hair shifting slightly in a breeze. In the boy's hand was a red lightsaber, and in his head were two eyes that Hethus remembered looking coldly at him from across a Force choke…

Hethus gritted his teeth and shook himself roughly, like a nexu shaking off water. Mysvaleer was gone, as surely as if he was dead. Hethus knew this; had known for years.

There was no such thing as a good Sith. Mysvaleer would have been shuffled off to Korriban, and there he would have been replaced by the same monster that raised them.

 _Mom was an exception,_ said a traitorous little voice in his head.

 _She wasn't Sith,_ Hethus answered shortly. _She was a woman born to a Sith family who, like me, was too weak to be trained._

Hethus stopped and realized his idle feet had taken him to the cockpit. He looked out, surveying the stars arrayed before him. Without even looking at the map to his right, he was able to pick out the Coruscant system coreward of the _Kestrel_ , the slight orange tint of the aging star, coupled with its proximity to the great central mass of light that was the core, giving it away. Rimward of their position he could see the blue-white illumination of the Kaas system, the small, cold star only able to warm the chilly Imperial capitol into habitability with the help of ancient terraforming technology, long since lost to the ages.

The stars were innumerable, and navigation in space without a computer was functionally impossible, but this was Hethus' home. He'd lived in space since he was ten, and on this ship since he'd bought it at sixteen with the money from that heist over Taris. He knew the sky like almost no other. He couldn't _navigate_ , per say, but he could always find his way to two or three key worlds.

He sat heavily in the pilot's chair. They were out of hyperspace, floating in the void away from any planet. They had nowhere to be, and had seen no reason to approach any potential boarders or conflict without a destination.

Now Hethus had one. He consulted the galaxy map and brought the _Kestrel_ to bear.

"Come one, old girl," he said to the ship, his voice a low, almost loving murmur. "Let's go see what this 'home' we've found is like."

He plotted a course for Dubrillion and entered hyperspeed.

The inertial dampers he'd picked up a few months back did their work, and the jerk of breaking the warp barrier was barely enough to put a gentle pressure on his neck. He felt confident that none of the crew would have woken.

He leaned back in the synthleather chair and looked out at the fractal light of the warp. A smile touched his lips.

People, especially people who worked aboard starships, tended to take warp travel for granted. He was guilty of it himself. The ability to travel faster than light was one that had been formative to galactic history. It had allowed for the creation of extrasolar alliances, and for the fighting of extrasolar wars. It was the foundation for all interspecies communication and interaction. It was impossible for any citizen of the Galaxy, whether Republic, Empire, or anything in between, to even begin to imagine a time before lightspeed and the hyperdrive. Most people didn't even realize that such a time had once existed.

But Hethus, whose livelihood depended on keeping up-to-date on breakthroughs in starship technology, knew better. Lightspeed, like all other starship technology, had been _discovered_. There was a time, long ago, when the black was utterly empty. No hyperlanes, no starships, nothing. When no battle fleets, no freighters, no passenger liners, and no smugglers had wandered the stars as easily as a man on foot could wander a planet, or easier.

He liked, sometimes, to imagine what life must have been like, back then, in starships so slow that their travel time, even between two planets within a system, could be measured in days. He wondered how the first humans, leaving their still-developing planet of Coruscant, had reacted to finding out that there were other peoples, other species, in the stars who were just as powerful in the Force as they were, or more so.

He imagined what it must have been like to live in the generation that invented the hyperdrive; to be alive to see the sudden transformation of the Galaxy from an impassable, empty, hostile sea of nothingness into a bustling network of activity. And it would have been sudden; the moment the hyperdrive was invented, it would have been _everywhere_ , sold to every people the developer could find to facilitate interaction.

He looked over at the great barrel-shaped casing that housed one of the _Kestrel_ 's thrusters and sighed.

The hyperdrive had been invented, and subsequently shared, so that its makers could save themselves from solitude. Hethus, looking back out at the fractal lights of transit, wished he could do the same.

* * *

There was no feeling in the galaxy quite like being in deep space with only oneself, one's three-year-old sister, a barely-spaceworthy junker, and half the collective galactic navy intending to fry said junker if possible.

Getting out of Imperial territory, however, was less difficult than it might have been. The ten-year-old pilot had half expected the collective Empire to come down on him like a ton of bricks before he'd left Kaas' atmosphere, but that hadn't happened, and from there it was just a matter of getting out of the Seat of the Empire and into neutral ground for refueling and then contacting the Jedi Temple.

Of course, that just opened other avenues for nerves.

"Let me get this straight," said the Nautolan customs officer slowly. "You're a refugee from the Empire, right?"

Hethus sighed. Were all of Nar Shaddaa's Republic agents this slow? "Yes," he answered, exaggeratedly slowing his voice. "And my sister is force-sensitive." He shrugged so that Vanna, on his shoulders, was jostled. She giggled.

"And you want to give her to the Jedi." The Nautolan was studying his sister like he'd never seen such a thing before.

" _Yes_."

"Why?" the alien asked blankly.

Hethus looked up at the dark sky, the clouds lit from below by neon lights of various colors. "Have you ever met a Sith?" he asked.

"Nah. Heard it's a cushy job though."

"And being a Jedi isn't?" Hethus asked him with a raised brow.

The Nautolan snorted. "Have you ever met a Jedi?" he asked.

Hethus blinked. "Ah," he said. "I see. I'd rather her not be a wealthy noble dictator than be dead."

The Nautolan nodded amiably. "Right, fair enough," he said. "Empire threatening people's lives, now _that_ 's familiar territory. Follow me; I'll get the two of you bunked somewhere and then I'll get a line to the Jedi temple."

"Thank you."

It seemed only minutes after they'd settled into the room that the Nautolan came back in.

"Well," he said, looking wry, "Apparently the actual Grand Master thinks this is important, so that was a surprise."

Hethus blinked at him. "You're joking," he said flatly.

"Nope," the Nautolan said with a snort. "I wish; she's scary. She wants to talk to you."

Hethus sighed to hide the sudden rush of terror. "Well," he said lightly, "wouldn't do to keep the headsman waiting."

He picked up Vanna and followed the Nautolan down the hall and into a large, cylindrical room, dominated by a central holocommunicator. The blue image it formed was of a woman in her early forties, whose face, though smooth, seemed somehow aged with care.

"Thank you, Officer Narm," she said to the Nautolan. "Could we have a few minutes of privacy?"

The Nautolan nodded, and then bowed, seeming uncertain as to what was expected of him. "Uh, of course, Grand Master," he said. Then with an apologetic glance at Hethus, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Hethus took a deep breath. "Grand Master," he said, keenly aware of the Imperial lilt to his voice. "I wasn't… I didn't expect you to…"

"Deal with this personally?" the woman finished for him, unsmiling. "Normally, I likely wouldn't. Then again, nothing about this situation is normal, is it?"

Hethus swallowed. "What do you know?" he asked thickly.

"Little," the woman admitted, her voice betraying nothing. "The Force told me I would be receiving a call, and that it required a personal hand. Why, exactly, I don't know. Perhaps you can enlighten me?"

Hethus looked at her, Vanna, on his shoulders, held his head tightly.

"I want to put my sister into the care of the Jedi," he said slowly, clearly. "It's the only place I know she'll be safe from the Sith."

"The Sith don't come into Republic territory, as a general rule," the Grand Master said coldly. "What makes this girl so special that they would hunt her down?"

"My father would," Hethus said quietly. "And if not him… they'd still look for her. And me."

"Answer the question," the woman demanded sharply. " _Why_?"

"Because we're nobility!" Hethus retorted angrily. "Because daddy dearest is a kriffing psychopath, and I don't want my little sister to turn out _anything_ like him!"

 _Like Mysvaleer will._ Hethus looked away, one hand coming up to claw at his aching chest. _Please be okay, big brother._ Even as the thought—the hope—formed, he already knew it was vain. Mysvaleer was Imperial and Sith, and if they ever met again it would be Hethus' last day alive.

"My name is Hethus Meiron," he said quietly. "Second son of Earl Arteis Meiron of Dromund Kaas. If I'd stayed there much longer, I'm afraid my father would have killed my sister." He looked back at the Jedi, heedless of the tears in his eyes. "Please," he begged. "You have to help me."

She studied him, an odd look in her eye. Then she sighed. "A ship will be deployed to Nar Shaddaa today," she said. "It should be there sometime tomorrow. It'll take you to the Jedi Temple on Tython. We'll talk more there."

He sagged. " _Thank you,_ Grand Master," he whispered, bowing on instinct.

"Don't thank me yet," said the Grand Master grimly. "There's still work to do." She studied him for a moment. "My name's Satele Shan," she said. "'Grand Master' is cumbersome. 'Master Satele' will do fine."

Hethus blinked at her. "Shan?" he asked slowly.

She frowned at him. "Don't go there," she advised.

"Yes, Master Satele."

She snorted. "You learn fast," she said. "Sure you don't want to join your sister as an apprentice?"

Hethus swallowed. "I'm not sensitive enough," he said.

"That's for other people to judge," said Master Satele. "Sorry to keep you, though; you must be exhausted. Send in Officer Narm and get some sleep."

Hethus nodded. "Thank you, Master Satele," he said, and left.

Of course, sleep was hard to come by; taking care of a three-year-old will do that even to an adult, even with a child as well-behaved as Vanna. Hethus was only ten. But he was feeling much better when the ship came the next day.

* * *

"Hethus, correct?" said a brown-robed Jedi as he disembarked the droid-piloted ship. The Togruta's voice was businesslike, almost disinterested. Hethus had a feeling Master Satele hadn't told him the details.

Hethus nodded absently, holding Vanna tightly to him as he looked around the spaceport… if it could be called that. It was just a small, open-air dock on the edge of a cliff. The world he found himself on was lush and green in a verdant, bright way quite unlike Dromund Kaas.

"Wait here for a moment, please," said the man, palming a communicator and speaking into it. "Master Satele, your visitors are here."

"Thank you, Master Quane," said the woman's voice from the speaker. "I'll be there momentarily. Please have them wait for me."

The Togruta nodded at Hethus. "You heard her," he said, pulling out a datapad. "You don't mind if I work while you wait, do you?"

Hethus shook his head mutely, looking around and drinking in the greenery around them while Vanna played with his hair.

A minute passed, two, and then there was the sound of a pressure door sliding open.

"Hethus," said the Grand Master as she approached. "Please, follow me."

He did. The outside of Jedi Temple was a veritable garden. She led him across a courtyard of emerald grasses, dotted with circular, enclosed training pads and split by a cobblestone pathway that led up to the great structure of the Temple behind.

The building itself was a strange, mushroomy thing; ornate and built of carefully molded durasteel, painted in earth-tone colors. A pair of Jedi initiates in their teens, clad in long brown robes, glanced at him and the baby in his arms curiously as he passed them on his way into the main doors.

The inside of the temple was staggering. A vast, high chamber, cylindrical, and bordered by twin spiraling walkways up towards the ring-like second floor. In the center of the room, what looked like a massive holocron of some kind floated in the air above a hoverpad; a twelve-sided gold and brown monument to the Jedi's long history.

For a moment, Hethus was staggered by a sense of awe. _These_ were the people his had been trying to destroy for generations; _millennia_ , even. This gorgeous temple was the greatest haven and hearth for the people who had defended the Republic from the Empire for as long as either had existed.

It was humbling, and also more than a little terrifying. _If these are the Jedi, what must Korriban be like?_

Satele rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Welcome to the Jedi Temple," she said, not unkindly. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"

Hethus closed his eyes. If he was honest, some part of him did. "What am I going to do once I leave?" he asked quietly. "How will I survive? I'm a ten-year-old kid half a galaxy away from my parents. As bad as Dad was, at least he fed me."

"We can feed you," Satele said firmly. "Feed you, clothe you, house you."

He sighed. Then he shook his head. "I haven't told you everything," he confessed. "You don't want me as a Jedi."

She considered him for a moment, her face impassive. "Come," she said. "We'll talk in my study."

She led him down a side passage and into a small, cozy room. The door shut behind them.

She sat in a simple chair behind a desk and turned to face him. "Speak," she ordered. "What haven't you told me?"

He swallowed. "One time…" he began, and stopped. "My father was hurting Vanna," he explained. "He was… she wasn't going to die, probably. He was just… torturing her. Because she was a daughter, because she'd displeased him, because he _wanted to_ … I don't know. And I… I couldn't let him do that. I had to stop him. I was… I was _so angry_."

He shook his head. "I don't remember much. I know my mom saved me… but I used Force Lighting on him, and then he turned on me."

She was looking at him gravely, a slight frown on her face and a cool empathy in her eyes. "I'm sorry that happened to you," she said gently.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter now," he said firmly. "I'm _never_ going back there. But… well, you Jedi reject anger, right? I've used the Force in anger before. And that was the only time I really did; other than that, the best I can manage is being a little bit better with a speeder. I don't… I don't think I can let go of that."

"You could try," Satele suggested, but there was a wry note to her voice.

He shook his head. "I don't _want_ to," he said. "I've been powerless my whole life except the one moment I got angry enough to fight back. I don't… I can't go back to that."

She nodded. "I understand," she said simply. "I trust you won't be going back to the Sith. We'll find you lodgings somewhere offworld. If not being a Jedi, what _would_ you like to do?"

Hethus shrugged helplessly. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I guess I'd like to fly?"

"There's a flight school on Coruscant," Satele suggested. "It's a boarding school, so they'll put you up. I can give you the opportunity to take the entrance exam, and house you until you're accepted."

Hethus blinked at her. "Are you serious?"

"Very," she said with a slight smile. "We Jedi aren't quite the barbarians you may be used to, young man."

He smiled back. "Thank you," he said earnestly. "I… I won't forget this, Master Satele."

She chuckled. "Think nothing of it," she said. Then she considered him. "I do have one request," she said slowly. "And I understand it will be difficult, but it's important."

Hethus nodded. "I'm listening," he said.

"I must ask you not to reveal your relationship to Vanna once she's grown," Satele said softly. "If we are to train her, it must be as a foundling. Neither she, nor anyone else, must ever become aware of her heritage. That means you must never reveal yourself, lest she wring the truth from you. Can you do that?"

He twitched. Swallowed.

"She'll be safe?" he asked.

"She will," Satele promised.

He closed his eyes. "I'll do it," he swore.

 _And the rest is history._

* * *

 **A/N: As with all my writing, reviews and comments are appreciated but not solicited. I will respond to any that merit response. Thank you, and I'll see you when I finish the chapter for Yskalan, the Sith Inquisitor.**

 **Be advised that there is now a SpaceBattles mirror for this story. It may update slightly more frequently in smaller chunks, and-if it gets to be more active than it has been thus far-may become a place for discussion of the story. You are all welcome to join in over there.**


	5. Chapter 5: The Sith Inquisitor

**A/N: This chapter was largely a joy to write. Yskalan is an immensely fun character. I look forward to developing him further, because-unlike a lot of the others-his unique traits aren't easy to observe in introspection, so a lot of his development is deferred until he actually starts acting in the later parts of the fic.**

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

 _The Sith Inquisitor_

" _Everyone has weaknesses… but especially Jedi."_

* * *

"Councilors, please," Yskalan drawled, lounging comfortably in the large, red-and-black chair. "Surely we needn't start feuds over such a trivial matter as this?"

"Darth Imperius is quite right," Vowrawn agreed from his seat nearby, talking over the arguing Darths Ravage and Mortis.

The hall of the Dark Council was the quintessential Sith structure—massive and imposing, with a high ceiling that stretched so far that the top of the spire was barely visible from the inside. The twelve seats which ran along two sides of the room sat before twelve imposing statues of robed and hooded Sith from ages past. The floor was stone, but the walls were the same dark metal that dominated modern Imperial construction. Along one wall were draped two great red banners emblazoned with the hexagonal sigil of the Empire and the angular mark of the Dark Council.

There were six of them present today: Yskalan himself, Darth Marr, Darth Zhorrid, Darth Mortis, Darth Ravage, and Darth Vowrawn. None of the others had appeared by holo. At the moment, Yskalan was rather expertly—if he did say so himself—preventing them from destroying the Empire completely.

"Trivial matter?" scoffed Ravage. "We're only discussing the _future of Alderaan_ , one of the only core worlds we still have a presence in since we lost Corellia."

Yskalan snorted. "You really need to get a grip, Ravage," he said dryly. "What good is a stepping-stone on Alderaan while the Republic maintains neutrality on Voss and a presence on Quesh, both within a day's Hyperspace trip of _this very room_?"

"It's our most effective route into the core!" Ravage argued. "It's the only staging area we have between the Seat of the Empire and Coruscant!"

"And should we attempt to use it," Darth Marr said darkly, "we would find Republic soldiers on Korriban before our fleets made half the distance. We are not in a position to fortify outer domains, Ravage. We must look inward."

"Precisely," Yskalan agreed, his voice dripping with honey. " _Thank you_ , Marr."

Marr didn't look at him. Yskalan had a strong feeling the armored Darth didn't like him very much. Which wasn't a surprise, Dark Council persona was not meant to be _likeable_.

"On the topic of looking inward," Mortis said, "what of the Emperor's Wrath?"

"Imperius' Wrath, do you mean?" said Darth Acina pointedly.

Yskalan laughed. "Do you honestly think I could control Darth Pyrus in any way should we disagree?" he asked. "It is my good fortune that our interests often align. Nothing more."

"Regardless," Marr said, cutting them off, "Darth Pyrus' actions, I agree, are worth discussing. Mortis, what has he done?"

"Nothing," Mortis said evenly. "Therein lies the problem. Since Corellia and his defeat of Darth Baras he has nearly ceased to be a factor in the war effort. What he _has_ been doing, I do not know."

"There's certainly an argument to be made," Yskalan said dryly, "that what the Emperor's Wrath does is not our concern."

"And would you care to make that argument?" Darth Marr asked coldly.

"Not at all," replied Yskalan with a chuckle. "I consider myself to be quite the shameless heretic. I merely thought it worth mentioning."

There was a moment of silence in the chamber.

"Although," Yskalan mused, "I suppose heresy is something of a requirement to sit on this council, isn't it? One doesn't become truly powerful by toeing the line."

"Have you anything to contribute?" asked Zhorrid coldly. "Or are you just going to offer your comedic interruptions?"

Yskalan smiled at her. "I always contribute, my dear Zhorrid," he said lightly. "But I do not take any issue with Pyrus' recent behavior. If anyone does, by all means, lead us on in this second-guessing of the Emperor's personal agent!"

Marr was looking at him, his mask hiding any expression, but Yskalan could feel his seething in the force.

"I consider Pyrus to be a model Sith," the armored Darth said slowly. "He cares for the Empire in a way I think many on this council could stand to learn from. However, I cannot say his recent inaction does not disturb me—not because I think him disloyal, but because, if he has greater threats to the Empire to fight, it disturbs me that we are not privy to them. Either he does not trust us, or the Emperor does not."

"Would _you_ trust us, Darth Marr?" Yskalan asked with a chuckle. "I know I wouldn't."

* * *

"How'd it go?"

Yskalan sighed and pulled his hood back off his head, leaning back and resting against the bulkhead. "Well enough," he told the togruta tiredly, his red eyes seeking her blue. "It's exhausting, of course, but not overly painful."

"I don't know how you do it," she told him sympathetically, reaching out and taking his hand in hers. "I really don't. How you can sit among them and lie without blinking."

"It's not all lies," he said frankly. "Just a filter. What I say is true; _how_ I say it is my weapon." He rolled his head around on his neck, the vertebrae cracking sharply. " _My_ , but I'll be glad to be off Korriban. This world always reminds me of slavery."

Ashara pulled him close. "This is where you were freed," she said gently. "That's what you told me."

Yskalan shook his head. "This is where I traded bonds," he said. "Although I didn't see that until much later."

 _Being Sith is about being free,_ he mused idly. _How long I believed that without ever actually taking that freedom seriously._

"I suppose I didn't _really_ become free until…" he considered. "It must have been… Quesh, I suppose. The second time there."

Ashara stiffened slightly against him.

"Yes," he said gently. "Cipher Nine, and Pyrus. You hadn't known them for long, I know."

"it was horrible," she mumbled. "What they did to her. I think that's when I realized… the Republic really isn't any better than the Empire, in the end."

Yskalan sighed. "I don't know," he said. "There are more layers of the bureaucracy dedicated to protecting the innocent in the Republic, no one can deny that… but yes, the upper echelons are every bit as broken as the Dark Council. The difference is that the Jedi aren't directly part of that, the way the Sith are."

The holocomm rang, out in the lounge.

Yskalan sighed. "Back on with the mask," he mumbled. "I'll be back later, Ashara."

She kissed him. "I'll hold you to that."

He left the engine room and made for the communicator terminal.

"Imperius." The voice, faintly aristocratic, was nonetheless warm and welcome.

Yskalan allowed a genuine smile to break across his face. "Pyrus," he said. "I thought you were another damned Councilor."

Darth Pyrus chuckled. "Not this time, old friend," he said lightly. "Just me, checking in. I thought I ought to keep you posted."

Yskalan nodded. "Have you found an operation for us?" he asked.

Pyrus shook his head. "Not us," he said. "Just me. Cipher Nine has arranged a meeting with Ardun Kothe on Quesh."

Yskalan twitched. "Pyrus," he said. "I sincerely hope you're not planning on meeting him alone."

"I'm bringing the team," the other Sith reassured him. "This is by far my best chance to finally get a foothold with the Jedi Order proper. If I can bring Ardun Kothe, a Fallen Jedi _not_ aligned with the Sith, to return to the fold at _my_ advice… well. The symbolism will be powerful."

Yskalan rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Ardun Kothe," he said flatly, "is an amoral, spineless son of a Hutt who will never trust anyone he hasn't got leverage over. You really think this isn't a trap?"

"Oh, it probably is," Pyrus acknowledged. "I just doubt he has the capability to _win_ if he forces an engagement."

Yskalan put his head in his hands. "At least let us come as backup," he said. "I can have the _Black Storm_ in the Quesh system in a few days."

"Sorry, old friend," Pyrus said gently. "The meeting's in two. There's no way you can get from Korriban here in that time. Besides, you can't afford to leave the Council to their own devices for that long. Who knows what Zhorrid, Ravage, and Mortis could do without you to play them against each other?"

"It would only be for a week or two," Yskalan protested. "Please, Pyrus—Mysvaleer. Get Cipher Nine to reschedule the meeting so I can be there."

The Kaas-born noble shook his head. "No, Yskalan," he said. "that would drive them away, for certain. You must trust me, this time."

Yskalan sighed. "The last time you went to Quesh alone," he said quietly, "you ended up half dead under a rockslide. Only Cipher Nine's intervention—and the fact that Karrys and I were both near—saved you then. _Please_ be careful."

"I will," Mysvaleer swore firmly. "You have my word, old friend."

Yskalan closed his eyes. "Very well," he said. "That's the best I'll be getting. I wish you the best of luck."

Mysvaleer smiled. "As some Jedi I know might say," he said, "I have no need of luck. The Force is with me."

The channel closed, and Yskalan stood staring at the empty space where his friend had been for time. Then he turned and made for the bridge.

"Andronikos," he said as he entered, "I need a favor."

"You got it," the former pirate said, glancing back at him from where he'd been watching the passing ships through the front viewport. "What do you need?"

"Recently the planet of Dubrillion has been coming back under the control of its former royal lineage," Yskalan said. "The line of Drayen."

Andronikos frowned. "As in, Nok Drayen?" he asked. "They said the old bastard claimed to be royalty, but…"

"It's quite true," Yskalan said flatly. "And his daughter, one Risha Dr—well," he chuckled. "Risha, in any case… she has recently reclaimed the throne. There is, however, still some infighting. Do you have any contacts in that sector who might know anything about affairs there?"

Andronikos nodded slowly. "I probably have one or two," he said. "Why?"

"I need to know where her husband is," Yskalan said. "One Captain Hethus. Republic-aligned smuggler and gunrunner who has gradually amassed a fortune to rival his wife's."

Andronikos stared at him. "This is a weird one," he said.

"It's weirder than you know," Yskalan said shortly. "Take my word for it. Can you send out feelers?"

"Sure," Andronikos shrugged. "I'll do what I can."

Yskalan nodded. "Thank you, Andronikos," he said putting a hand on the seated man's shoulder. "I know I owe you an explanation. I will provide it as soon as the affair is settled."

Andronikos shrugged. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I've got your back."

"I know, my friend," said Yskalan, a faint smile crossing his red-skinned face. "I know."

* * *

"Lord."

Yskalan turned to face his apprentice. "Xalek. What is it?"

The Kaleesh watched him impassively through his reptilian eyes. "I wish to become Sith, Lord."

Yskalan considered this. "And you don't want to kill me to do it?" he asked. "The traditional approach is to kill one's master to receive their position."

"I cannot defeat you," Xalek said simply. "You are as a god who has not died— _will_ not die. You are greater than I can hope to be for many years, and yet there are Lords of the Sith and even Darths who are much weaker than I."

"Does this seem unfair to you, Xalek?" Yskalan asked evenly.

Xalek's eyes twitched ever so slightly. "Fairness," he said, "is not the way of the Sith."

"Correct," Yskalan agreed. "That being said, strength and power _are_. You have both, and have demonstrated them to my satisfaction."

Xalek's eyes, already laser-focused, seemed almost to gain intensity. "Then, Lord…"

"Yes," Yskalan confirmed. "I will see to your induction as a Dark Lord of the Sith. It shall not be immediate, and it is traditional for such an induction to occur in the wake of a great task an apprentice performs in his master's name. I will seek out such a task for you. When it is completed, you will be named Lord Xalek."

Xalek watched him for a moment. "And then, to become a Darth?" he asked.

Yskalan grinned. "One step at a time, my eager Apprentice," he said with a chuckle. "Only the very greatest of Sith are given the title of Darth. A Darth owes allegiance to no one, but is a ruler of a nation in his own right. Each Darth is a warlord unto himself. You have power, Xalek, but you have no power _base_. Not yet. It will come, once you are a Lord and able to take Apprentices yourself."

Xalek nodded. "Thank you, Lord. I will follow you."

Yskalan considered him. "A Lord is expected to maintain allegiance to his Darth sponsor," he said slowly. "Many, however, do not. I, for instance, became the mortal enemy of my sponsor within days of receiving the title. I will not hold it against you if you choose to cut ties and pursue your destiny without me, once the title is conferred on you."

Xalek shook his head. "You have paved the way to godhood," he said. "I will learn. There is no shame."

The corners of Yskalan's mouth twitched upward. "You make a good Sith," he said. "Too few understand this. I will be happy to assist you in your journey to ever-greater power."

Xalek bowed low. "And I will fight your battles beside you, Lord," he said.

* * *

"Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Peace is a—"

"Ashara."

The togruta woman's eyes snapped open with a start. "Yskalan?" she mumbled. "I was—oh, Force…"

He held her as she shuddered, his skin meeting hers under the bedclothes. There was nothing erotic about this contact, however—only a shared warmth and certainty.

"I'm okay," she murmured eventually. "I'm okay."

He released her slowly, falling back to his side of the bed, before propping himself up on one arm to look over at her. "You haven't had such a dream for some time," he said quietly.

"No," she agreed, looking up at the ceiling, her eyes not even flickering towards him. "No, I haven't. I guess it was past due."

"I'm sorry."

There was silence. Then she sighed.

"I am, too," she murmured. "Sorry that I can't just… forgive you."

"I've scarred you terribly," Yskalan said. "I understand."

She shook her head, screwing her eyes shut. "But you've also shown me the galaxy in ways the Jedi never would have," she said. "I'd _never_ have learned most of what you've taught me if we hadn't met on Taris. I'm grateful for that, Yskalan, you have to believe me."

"I do."

Her hand—the one on her other side—slapped the bed hard. "Then why can't I get over this?" she asked furiously. "Why can't I just… I don't know, deal with it?"

"Don't you dare blame yourself," Yskalan said evenly. "It's no one's fault but mine."

She tried to sigh, but halfway through it became a faint sob. "I love you," she whispered. "You know that, don't you?"

"I do," he assured her. "And I you, Ashara."

She turned to him. "What do I do?" she asked weakly. "I can't go on like this—scared to go to sleep because I might wake up a monster. What do I do?"

He considered her, his eyes tracing the curve of her facial markings over her orange skin. "Darth Pyrus might be able to help," he said. "He has studied the Code in more depth than I, and Angral's whole form was based on it. He might be able to teach you an interpretation that would allow you to circumvent the holocron's influence."

"He kept Jaesa anchored even when her own Master turned," Ashara agreed. "Yes. He might be able to help."

Yskalan sighed. "Well, we'll have to get in touch with him as soon as he returns from Quesh." _If he returns from Quesh._

Ashara nodded. "Thank you, Yskalan," she said, laying back with a sigh and closing her eyes. "Thank you."

He watched her for a time: watched her until her breathing steadied and her heartrate slowed, watched until, through the Force, he felt her mind wandering in dreams.

Then he turned away, swung his legs silently over the side of the bed, and stood up. He walked soundlessly over to the dresser, slipped into his robes with barely a rustle, and left the room.

Soon he was in the cockpit, in the pilot's seat, staring out at the black. The stars twinkled impersonally from beyond the void, and far below the dark brown of Korriban's night blotted out half of the night like a dirty rag across his viewport.

He closed his eyes, and reached out to the Force.

 _I have struck the delicate balance of Light and Dark more than any before me,_ Pyrus had said to the rest of them once, on Corellia. _Even Revan himself did not so neatly walk the line as I do now._

 _But you, Yskalan,_ he'd later said, privately, _you have a strength in the Force like no one I've ever seen. You shine like a sun in the eyes. What must it be like, to be so intimate with the Force that you hear it as clearly as my voice right now?_

It was, for one thing, never lonely.

"Peace is a lie," he said, enunciating the words clearly. "There is only passion. Through passion I gain strength. Through strength I gain power. Through power I gain victory. Through victory my chains are broken." He swallowed. "The Force shall free me."

It had.

The Dark Side swirled around him like an embrace, lapping up his passionate gratitude.

"My bond to Ashara," he said aloud. "It is a chain, yet it is passionate. It gives my strength to lash out at those that would harm her. But it binds me to her. How can this be reconciled?"

The Force murmured in his ear. He listened.

"Yes," he agreed. "I _am_ at peace, when I am with Ashara. Is that the solution to the conundrum, then? The rejection of peace, in all its forms, brings about a totality of freedom?"

He considered this for a time, his eyes darting from one twinkling star to another.

"The Jedi reject attachment," he said, "even as the Sith reject chains. That is identical, not antithetical; this is in spite of the fact that the Sith Code was written as a rejection of the Jedi teachings. It is _meant_ to be antithetical. How can this be resolved?"

The Light Side crept around him like a skittish cat. He beckoned it closer. It spoke to him, softly, gently, but firmly.

"The Jedi Code," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "Hm. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force."

The Light Side shimmered around him like a coat of many colors, holding him warmly as he spoke.

"Harmony," he mused. "As juxtaposed with chaos? I suppose I can see the contrast."

The Force crooned faintly in a musical chime.

"Yes," Yskalan agreed. "Harmony. Many notes, but blended smoothly in a manner pleasing to the ear—and simple to listen to. Discord—or chaos, if you prefer—is the opposite. Notes which do not blend. But neither of these is solitude."

The Light and the Dark meshed together for a moment… before breaking apart. Yskalan sighed.

"I am not Pyrus," he said quietly. "I haven't the capacity to house you both at once. Not yet. But I will try."

In turn, they whispered in his ears.

"Solitude is the way of the Sith," Yskalan mused, "but it is not a demand of the Dark Side. The Jedi say that love is possible without attachment. If they are right, then hate must be too, and so the lonely Sith is capable of drawing from the breadth of emotion."

The Dark murmured something.

"But are they right?" Yskalan asked. "Can one love— _truly_ love—and not grow attached? Could I feel for Ashara as I do—no." He shook his head. "That is a fallacy. What I feel is love _and_ attachment. If I felt only love, it would feel different. I cannot use that argument. But does that mean that attachment is a passion, in and of itself?"

He considered this again.

"No," he decided. "No, I feel at attachment to Zash, and I felt an attachment to Thanaton, even long after I had ceased to hate or even resent either of them. I cannot draw strength from these attachments. Therefore, they are not passions. But it is something within my breadth of feeling."

The Light spoke a caution.

"You are right," he acknowledged. "I am wandering. Solitude is the arena of the Sith—the Jedi, rather, are meant to be united. They are meant to be plural. The fear of attachment, then—where did they get that?"

 _Bastila Shan._ The Force spoke in union with itself.

"She was not the first," Yskalan said slowly, "but she is, perhaps the best example. Yes, they _fear_ attachment—fear what it can do to them. Bastila Shan became a great Jedi, but only by pushing through her attachment to Revan, who walked the line. She was a threat to their order for a long while."

The Light Side spoke again.

"But in the code, there is _no_ grounds," Yskalan agreed slowly. "Yes. The only line from which it might derive—'There is no passion, there is serenity'—is not applicable. Attachment is not a passion." He frowned. "And yet, love _is_ , yet the Jedi profess to be capable of love and to reject only attachments. How is this resolved?"

The Light Side spoke. Yskalan blinked.

"I—" he stopped. "I cannot understand you," he said wonderingly.

The Light Side was silent.

"I am a Dark Lord of the Sith," said Yskalan quietly, "and I have studied you insufficiently. There are things I cannot learn from you yet. How…?"

The Dark Side crept back in.

He shook his head. "I want to learn," he said quietly. "I want to learn as Pyrus does, through your voices." He chuckled. "I suppose I'll be joining Ashara for her lessons."

The Light Side flitted about his cocoon of Darkness.

"Well, enough philosophizing," Yskalan said, and let go.

His mind expanded, encompassing all of the Korriban system in a moment, and then reaching further. He felt each member of the Dark Council shudder as he washed over them and, were he still a conscious mind, in the traditional sense, it would have given him a sadistic pleasure to know that he could drive such discomfort into his rivals.

He soon reached Dromund Kaas and hovered there for a time, watching the Dark Temple's roiling shadows overtake its thralls.

He moved on. Vaiken Spacedock was light a beacon—a hub of so much Light and Darkness that he could barely see.

He turned his attention Coreward and looked toward the Republic. He passed over the crumbling ruins of occupied Taris with barely a glance. He passed Ord Mantell, and there stopped for a time, considering the battleground. The Empire had given little support to the rebellion there since the war had broken out, but if he could get their borders secured he might well use Ord Mantell as a Core-planet staging ground.

He passed Alderaan quickly—the Empire had mostly lost control of the ancient world by now, and it was swarming with Jedi—and sought Coruscant.

He found it. The city-planet; the oldest city in the Galaxy. Some said it was the homeworld of humanity. Others said that the city predated any of the modern galactic species. What was known was that the bottom third of the atmosphere was absolutely uninhabitable due to long pollution. Whatever was left of the city down there had long been empty of any modern civilization.

A presence touched his own. A Jedi, from…

No, it blocked him. It rejected his attempt to trace its origin. Had he a mouth, he would have smiled. This was shaping up to be interesting.

They danced, he and the presence, feeling one another's Force signatures in the skies of Coruscant. His Darkness, speckled through with motes of Light, swirled about her—for she was a woman—Light, which was touched by the Dark. They were mirrors of one another, he and she, and they were evenly matched, although they were not fighting.

No, this was not combat. Combat would have been useless at this distance. Neither of them had any response, even should they gain an advantage. They could not even communicate through words, only through the barest and most universal of ideas.

She conveyed curiosity. He responded in kind.

They took one another through another few steps of the dance. He had no idea who was leading, but he took comfort in the knowledge that she hadn't any either.

He conveyed appreciation. She responded in kind.

They spiraled together, upward through the atmosphere, past the moons, and deep into the heart of the sun.

She pulsed an emotion—a smile. He smiled back.

Together, they danced the night away, the Light and the Dark.

* * *

"You in there, Sith?"

Yskalan opened his eyes. "Andronikos," he said, blinking. "Yes. I am here."

"Good," Andronikos said, watching him with some concern. "You looked… well. Like a vegetable, I guess. Like you weren't home."

"Well, in fairness," Yskalan said with a chuckle, "I wasn't. But I am now." He stood, stretched, and then frowned. "Do you know, Andronikos," he said slowly, "I believe I just spent all night dancing with a Jedi Master."

"I know a thing or two about weird dreams," Andronikos said.

Yskalan shrugged. "A near enough approximation," he acknowledged, "for a non-Sith. Not quite a dream, but something like it, I suppose."

"Right," Andronikos snorted. "You and your Force. You sure you're all right?"

Yskalan grinned. "Quite sure, my friend."

Andronikos sat beside him in the copilot's seat. "I heard back from my contact," he said. "This Hethus has been around the block a few times. I kind of already knew he existed, although I didn't know his name offhand—he's basically ruler of the Galactic underworld now."

Yskalan nodded. "I had heard as much," he said. "Have you any information regarding where he can be found?"

Andronikos grinned. "One of my old contacts did," he said. "He's got control of an old Hutt battlecruiser-turned mobile station called Port Nowhere. He runs everything out of it."

Yskalan closed his eyes. "Port Nowhere," he murmured. "A fitting name. It will be difficult to track down."

Andronikos raised his eyebrows. "You want to go against the greatest crime lord in the galaxy?" he asked. "This guy rules Hutts in their own game, boss."

"Yes," Yskalan agreed, "but I alone know some of his weaknesses. I have leverage."

There was a pause. Yskalan felt Andronikos' curiosity.

"Care to share?" the former pirate asked.

Yskalan looked over at him sidelong. "I wonder if you've ever been told of Pyrus' history," he said slowly. "His birth and childhood."

Andronikos shrugged. "I know he's a Kaas noble, but that's about it."

"He was the eldest of three siblings," Yskalan said. "The younger two defected to the Republic when he was very young."

Andronikos stiffened. "And Hethus is…"

"Ond of them, yes," Yskalan said. "You must tell _no one_ of this, Andronikos."

Yskalan's pilot swallowed. "Yeah, I can see why," he said roughly. "Pyrus doesn't know?"

"Pyrus cannot be allowed to know yet," Yskalan said darkly. "The knowledge would only weaken his resolve—especially if he knew where the third sibling, his younger sister, had gone."

Revel twitched. "Do I want to know?" he asked.

"She is a member of the Jedi Council," Yskalan said quietly. "I shan't tell you which."

"Great," Revel said, falling back against his seat. "That's just great. If Pyrus ever finds out…"

"If Pyrus finds out," Yskalan said, "then any attempted strikes against the Jedi will be crippled. No matter how strong he is, it will be difficult for him to harm her. She, however, will have no such compunctions, for she is quite unaware of her own origins."

"What if we told her?" Andronikos asked. "Maybe Pyrus could turn her?"

Yskalan shook his head. "He may one day forgive the betrayal of keeping this from him," he said. "He would _never_ forgive an attempt to manipulate her. No, that avenue is closed to us for as long as Pyrus remains a good man, and that seems unlikely to change."

The former pirate sighed. "Fantastic," he muttered. "You two are really weird Sith, you know that?"

"I do," Yskalan assured his friend. "I do indeed."

The holocomm rang in the other room. Yskalan twitched. "I'm late to the Council meeting, aren't I?" he asked.

Andronikos grimaced. "Oh, yeah. Probably."

Yskalan sighed. "I'll have to holocall in," he sighed. "Keep the others out of the terminal room, won't you?"

Andronikos nodded and stood up. "Best of luck, boss," he said.

Yskalan followed him upright. "Thank you, Captain," he said.

He followed the Captain out and as the captain turned right to use the ship's intercom to tell the rest of the crew not to disturb the Darth in his meeting, Imperius approached the holoterminal in the center of the room.

He took a moment to himself, closing his eyes and allowing the Dark to suffuse his being, bolstering him.

"On once more with the mask," he murmured.

Then he turned on the terminal, and was met with a view of the Dark Council chamber. He allowed the Force to shape his perception until he was looking out through his seater hologram in the chamber.

"Apologies for my tardiness," he said with a smirk, looking about the room. "I was meditating on the Dark Side."

"Of course you were," snorted Zhorrid. "Not scheming to steal more power at all, I'm sure."

Yskalan chuckled. "You know me so _well_ , my dear," he said.

* * *

 **A/N: Next chapter, we meet Master Vanna of the Jedi Council, the best worst Jedi in the Galaxy. I can't wait.**


End file.
